Fear of God
by Verdreht
Summary: Brian always knew Stasiak was a prick, but he never knew he was dirty. When he learns something about Brian that Brian doesn't want shared, he uses it to make Brian start cleaning up his messes. Now everything's spinning out of control, and someone's starting to notice. Intimidation's the name of the game, and there's about to be a new player in town. Brian/Dom non-canon AU-ish
1. Chapter 1

In hindsight, Brian thinks that tackling that guy Serrato off the roof wasn't one of his brighter ideas. It's only been about a half hour, and he's already starting to feel every one of those three stories they fell.

He's barely made it back to the office, and he's already heard five people call him crazy – and a few other things that actually make 'crazy' sound like a compliment – and Brian thinks that's pretty rich, because they don't know the half of it. These last few months have been one clusterfuck of crazy. He's hoping, though, that all that's about to change.

He catches Trinh coming down the hall just as he's finishing changing into some clothes that _aren't_ covered in broken glass and jogs to catch up with her.

"Oh, thank God," she says when she sees him, and he'd probably make some smartass remark about just calling him Brian, except she looks about one sideways look away from ripping her hair out, so he thinks he should probably let it go. They're heading for Penning's office, and Brian knows that stress plus this area of the office doesn't generally mean good things for anybody but _maybe_ the office counselor. "Listen, he's in a mood, because yesterday was his cheat day, and then today, some genius brought in donuts."

Yep, that'd do it.

He thinks that explains why it feels about ten degrees cooler when he gets in Pennings's office. "Sorry I'm late," he says, even though it's not his fault. He only got back to the station ten minutes ago; he didn't even know there _was_ a meeting. The gang's all here, though, so he's thinking he must've just missed the memo.

He misses a lot of memos.

That might be why he doesn't mind the looks he gets when he drops down into the seat in front of Pennings's desk, except he never really minded them in the first place, so he's thinking that can't be it. Mostly, he thinks it's just the people. Pennings looks annoyed, but Brian's figured out that's pretty much his factory setting; Agent Curnen just crosses her legs and looks at him like she expected nothing less – or more, he guesses, depending on how you look at it – and Stasiak…him, Brian minds.

But he'll be damned if he lets him know it.

"Complaints keep rolling in after your little downtown Olympics, O'Conner," Pennings says as he sits down. He thinks he's just about got his tie right. He's getting the hang of tying the damn things, after nearly a year working as a Fed. Still hasn't got the hang of wearing them, though. Damn things are uncomfortable as hell. "Tell me that reinstating you wasn't a mistake."

Nope. Tie's not quite right yet.

"I got a name," he says as he tugs on the knot, trying to get it so that it doesn't catch his Adam's apple every time he swallows. "David Park."

"That's it? That's all you got? _David Park?_" Stasiak's voice grates on Brian worse than the pretentious whine of a hybrid engine, and that's saying a whole hell of a lot. Fucking Priuses, man. And he knows that's not gonna be the end of it from Stasiak. Not by a long shot. "I could throw a fortune cookie out this window, hit fifty David Park's right now."

Brian's sorely tempted to see what _he_ could hit if he threw _Stasiak_ out the window. But unfortunately, he's not thinking that'll solve any of his problems.

"It's Korean, not Chinese."

"Whatever."

He knows Curnen didn't say it for his benefit, but Brian still wants to kiss her for calling Stasiak on his bullshit. Brian wants to, but he's gotten a little more careful with that shit lately. He's had to.

Instead, he just smiles at her and makes a mental note to buy her a round next time the office goes out for drinks, before turning back to Pennings. "Park is a scout that recruits street racers to be mules for the Braga cartel. We find Park, and we bust the bad guys." And Brian's pretty psyched about that, because taking Braga down means getting out from under all the shit he's gotten in these past few months.

It means getting out from under _Him_.

After that, there's really not much to talk about. Pennings gives him a slap on the wrist for causing trouble in the streets today, and Brian wants to tell him it wasn't his idea, that if he wants to blame someone, he should be looking somewhere else in this room, but he doesn't. He can't. Not if he doesn't want to bring anything down on the people he cares about.

And that…that's not even an option.

So he stands there, takes it, and tries to walk the line between not giving a shit and giving enough of a shit that it doesn't piss Pennings off more until the man's said what he wanted to say, and then he leaves.

He makes it all the way back to his desk – after a quick detour by the break room for a donut and coffee, because he hasn't had breakfast and he's fucking starved – and is getting ready to sit down and start on the mountain of paperwork he's got waiting for him from his "downtown Olympics" when Stasiak comes walking over like he owns the place.

Brian just leans back in his chair and grins his most pleasant, 'fuck you very much' grin and waits for Stasiak to do all the talking.

He doesn't have to wait long.

"What the hell are you grinning about, O'Conner?"

Brian shrugs. He doesn't give a shit what kind of attitude Stasiak gives him; he ain't ruining this for him. He worked too damn hard, ran too damn fast, and jumped off too many damn buildings to get this lead, and now he's a giant leap closer to getting Braga and playing out the rest of his end game, and he figures that's a hell of a lot to grin about.

The fact that he's going to stick it to Stasiak in the process doesn't hurt.

Except…Stasiak's not bristling like Brian thinks he should. He's not dishing out threats that Brian knows he's just underhanded enough to make good on, or talking his usual rich boy smack.

Which means, Brian realizes, that he's sitting on something better. And that can't mean anything good for Brian.

He resists the urge to shove him off when Stasiak comes and leans his hip on the corner of Brian's desk closest to him, because doing that would mean letting Stasiak know that he's getting under his skin, and Brian resolved a few months ago when all this shit started that he would never do that. Never. So he raises his head, and even if he lets his grin fall a little bit, he's still chill.

_Brian, don't lose that cool of yours. It's your meal ticket. _

It's been almost five years, and he can still hear that voice in his head clear as the first time. Can still smell the unique mix of metal, motor oil, and musk when the wind's just right. Can still see that face, if he lets himself. That's the one person that's ever gotten under Brian's skin, and it's got him doing all of this: the FBI… the other things. And if that doesn't mean he's screwed, then he doesn't know what does.

Next to all that, Stasiak's nothing. Staring down his beaky-ass nose at him like he's something special – it'd be sad if Brian didn't hate him so much. "You heard about what happened with the Braga case this morning?"

"Nah, man," Brian says casually, because if there's one thing Stasiak hates, it's casual, especially from someone like Brian. "I was kind of busy this morning, remember?" He should. He's the one that called him at the ass crack of dawn to track Serrato down. "Not all of us get to sit around on our asses all day and read e-mails, you know?"

"You think you're the shit, don't you, O'Conner?" Stasiak says.

Brian shakes his head and reaches for the donut he nabbed on his way to his desk. Because he figured, fuck, if he's gotta suffer Pennings's bitch fit about these donuts, he's at least gonna enjoy one. "I don't think nothing." He takes a bite of his donut, and doesn't bother with the whole chew-and-swallow thing before he says, "Seriously. You can ask anybody," and gestures vaguely around the office with his donut. He knows he's got a bit of a reputation for acting first and then thinking about it later, which works just fine for him. Fact of the matter is, he thinks just fine; it's the decision-making he tends to rush. His take on risk-return might be a little skewed, too.

Stasiak's nose twitches, and Brian _thinks_ he might be sneering, but it's hard to tell the difference between this and his resting face, and it doesn't help when he leans in. He reeks of expensive cologne and one of those French vanilla decaf soy monstrosities they whip up in the overpriced coffee store downstairs, and Brian has to wonder if he's _trying_ that hard to be a douche, or if it just comes naturally.

The next time Stasiak speaks, his voice is quieter, hissed, and so damn smug it makes Brian's stomach turn. "I own your ass, O'Conner," he says. "That shit you tried to pull with that Ortiz bitch? Did you really think that was gonna work?"

It takes everything Brian has to keep his face even. "What's this about, Stasiak?"

Instead of an answer, Stasiak pulls a folder from the top of Brian's box and drops it in his lap, and he waits until Brian's opened it to tell him, "Those are crime scene photos. Your girl Ortiz was found dead this morning. Murdered by one of Braga's men, we're assuming."

Brian wants to say something, _anything_, but all he can do is stare at the pictures. Skid marks on asphalt, the wreckage of a 1970 Plymouth Roadrunner that Brian knows was…shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. _Letty_.

He knows his face doesn't change, but Stasiak still seems to know he's won, because he grins and sits back. "You and me have funeral detail Wednesday." And then he leans in again, until his mouth is right up next to Brian's ear, and he wants to shudder, to flinch, to do something, but he stays dead still, and Stasiak whispers, "You're not getting out of our deal that easy, O'Conner. And if you try and pull that shit again, Pennings is gonna find out your little secret. You understand?"

"Yeah." Brian's voice is hard, but miraculously steady. "Yeah, I understand."

Satisfied, Stasiak leans back, and Brian would've breathed a sigh of relief if he wasn't so royally fucked again. "I'll let you get back to work," he says, and with a pat on his shoulder that burns Brian's skin, Stasiak's gone.

Brian gives it a second to be sure, and then he promptly tosses the rest of the donut in the trash. He's suddenly not hungry anymore.

Miraculously, he makes it through the rest of the day. He finishes his paperwork, meets with some DEA pricks that he's pretty sure are friends of Stasiak's – he saw them getting chummy in the conference room on his way back from the can – and when the clock hits five, he closes out of everything and goes the fuck home.

He makes it two steps into his shitty little apartment in Downtown Los Angeles, manages to get the door closed, and then…

And then he loses it.

His legs buckle, and he falls back against the door, sliding all the way down until his ass hits the cold tile. He barely even notices. All he can think about is Letty, dying. About how he should've protected her better. About how he never should've agreed to help when she'd come to him to get a deal for Dom.

And Dom….

"Fuck," he breathes, his voice hitched high and reedy. He throws his head back, and it hits the metal door of his apartment with a sharp thud that echoes in his head and aches and does absolutely nothing to clear his thoughts. Christ, when Dom finds out….

He let him down. _Again_.

He let Letty down.

He let himself down. Stasiak's got him on a leash again. Without Letty's deal for Dom, Stasiak's still got all the leverage he needs to run Brian like a puppet on a string, and there's nothing Brian can do about it.

He doesn't sleep that night.


	2. Chapter 2

It's becoming kind of a theme. Not sleeping, he means.

Tuesday's a late night at the office, organizing the details for the Ortiz funeral – and he has to call it that, because it feels kind of like he's got an engine block on his chest when he even _thinks_ the name 'Letty' – and figuring out who's gonna be where and what they need to be looking for. There's a lot of room for shit to go south with this one. A lot of shit they got to think about.

There's Braga's crew. Now that Letty's been outed, everyone around her is fair game. It wouldn't be the first time someone hit a snitch's funeral, and knowing who all's gonna be there, Brian's not taking any chances.

Which brings him to his second problem: everyone that's gonna be there. He knows there's gonna be Mia, and that's enough trouble on its own. It's already everything he can do to keep Stasiak and his posse of pricks off her; it's half how he got in this mess in the first place.

The real problem isn't Mia, though. It's still a Toretto – _fuck_, he thinks, _it's always a Toretto_ – it's just not that one.

Dom's gonna be there. He may not be there at the service, but he's gonna be someplace in eyeshot, watching, and he's definitely gonna be back in town. And damned if that doesn't throw on a whole other heap of shit that Brian really doesn't need right now. Because Stasiak…he wants Dom bad. Brian doesn't think it's just about sticking it to him, either. Dom's a big fish. Maybe the biggest. He's the FBI's 'one that got away' and the guy that brings him down…shit, he'll have it made. Big office, big paycheck, big name, and that's all a little fuck like Stasiak cares about.

Sticking it to Brian's just a bonus.

The only thing keeping Stasiak from bringing heat down on Mia is his deal with Brian. Except it's not really a deal, because that makes it sound like both people are getting something out of it. Brian knows he's being used; he just doesn't have any other options.

With Dom back in the states, though, that's just more incentive, and Brian's thinking that might run the risk of tipping the scales. If Stasiak thinks he can get him, he might lean on Mia anyway, and then everything Brian's trying to do – keeping the closest thing he's ever had to a family, even if he's lost it, safe – and everything he's _done_…it'll all be for shit.

So, yeah, that's a problem. And Brian's always been one to roll with the punches, always been one to keep his cool, but those punches are coming a lot harder and the heat's getting a lot hotter, and he's not sure how much longer he can keep this up.

Only, like he said: he doesn't have a choice.

It's almost midnight by the time Brian finishes up at the office and makes it home. He doesn't even bother to turn on the light, just walks in, toeing off his shoes and shedding his clothes as he goes, until he's dropping onto his bed in his undershirt, boxer briefs, and a single sock that just wouldn't let go.

He doesn't actually have any trouble falling asleep tonight. Not that he doesn't have a lot on his mind, but he's just too damn tired. He's out before his head even hits the pillow.

He's waking back up just as fast, though. Or, at least, it feels that way. It feels like he's just barely closed his eyes before he's opening them again, because his phone's buzzing on his bedside table. And he knows that's what it is, without even opening his eyes, because that sound…that sound haunts what little sleeps he gets.

He wants to let it ring. Wants to just ignore it, roll over, maybe put a pillow over his head, and pretend he doesn't hear it. He probably should, too, because he knows that answering that phone means something bad's about to happen, not just to him, but to someone else _because_ of him. That alone should be enough to make him ignore it. Or, even better, grab it and throw the damn thing across the room and watch it shatter on the wall. It wouldn't be the first time.

That gets expensive, though, and it's not like it helps. So, instead, he pushes himself up, swinging his bare legs over the side of the bed and grabbing up the phone. It's not buzzing anymore, but he isn't expecting it to. It's never a call; it's always a text. The number's always private, and the message always says the same damn thing.

_Same place. 1 hour. _

Above it, the clock on his phone reads 1:36, and he should be upset that the prick's got to text him now, but honestly, that's the least upsetting thing about this text. This shit isn't exactly the kind of stuff that happens in broad daylight, anyway.

He sighs, sitting his phone back on his bedside table and running his hands through his hair. He doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to do this shit anymore. He's spent so long being everyone's pawn – the LAPD's, US Customs, and now fucking _Stasiak's_ – and he's just so fucking tired of it.

This time, though, it's not just about him. The LAPD, Customs…he was doing all that for himself. He could back out, and that made it bearable. This, he's doing for _them_, and that means there's no backing out. He'll see this through until the end, whatever the hell that means.

So, he pushes himself to his feet, and _fuck_, he's definitely feeling that fall, now. He pads over to his drawers, grabs some jeans and a sweatshirt, because this isn't exactly dressing-up work, and he shrugs them all on with the mechanic ease of someone that's done something many, many times, and has resigned himself to doing it many, many more.

He crouches to open the bottom drawer, moving socks and shit out of the way to lift the false bottom. There's a gun there, because bringing his registered service weapon would just be stupid, along with a knife, gloves, and a balaclava, and he grabs all of them before making for the door.

His foot's a little heavy on the drive, but then, his foot's always a little heavy, and there's not that much traffic out this time of morning. Besides, the sooner he gets this done with, the better.

The gates are open when he arrives, just like they always are. He guesses it's about as close to rolling out the welcome mat as he's ever going to get, but truth be told, it doesn't make him feel very welcome. It makes him feel _expected_, and he hates that. He hates that Stasiak _knows_ he'll be here, hates that he knows he's got him backed into a corner, almost as much as he hates being backed into that corner.

At least, he thinks, they're on even turf. The "same place" is the truck loading and storage bay under the actual FBI headquarters, because one of Stasiak's crew works in security for evidence. He shuts off the cameras. No eyes, no witnesses, no mess.

When he gets out, he doesn't know if he's happy or annoyed to see no signs of Stasiak in the garage. Happy, because he can't stand the guy, and even the shittiest situation is made a little less shitty when he's not around. Annoyed, because he knows that Stasiak's at home sleeping so he can be all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for their funeral detail later that morning, and _shit_, Brian thinks, _they're his damn messes_. He should at least lose a little sleep over cleaning them up.

God knows Brian does.

But no, there's no sign of Stasiak. There's a car there, but standing by it is a different guy. Brian thinks his name might be Randy? DEA guy, if he's not mistaken, working on the Braga task force. He's big and burly with a shaved head – Brian wants to laugh at him, because he's only ever seen one person pull that off, and he's so _not him_, it's funny – and beady eyes, and his chest and arms are all so thick, it looks like he's having a hard time keeping them crossed.

"Stasiak send you here so he could get his beauty sleep?" Brian says by way of greeting, leaning back against his car. He doesn't want to be anywhere close to that guy, so the few yards between their cars are good. "He says jump, you say how high, right?"

Randy doesn't answer, but his scowl deepens, and he flings something at Brian with just a little more force than Brian thinks is really necessary.

Brian catches it anyway. He's always had pretty good resources, and back when he worked at DT's, they didn't believe walking over to hand each other shit. And damned if he doesn't make himself a little sad, thinking back like that. Those were the best times of his life, and now look at him.

Sad or not, though, the fact remains that, after catching a couple torque wrenches, a rolled-up folder's nothing. Brian snatches it out of the air, and doesn't bother asking for an explanation, because he knows he's not gonna get it. He rolls the rubber band off, and opens up the folder, and looks for himself.

It's a record. There's a mug shot, a rap sheet, and a shit ton of other documents that Brian could read if he had the time and patience, only he doesn't have either, so he decides it's time to try talking to the wall again. "Jarrod Guillermo," he says, and he knows he butchers the last name, but he doesn't give a shit. "I've heard this name before." He's seen the face before, actually.

"What do you want? A prize?" Randy snaps.

Brian chuckles despite himself, shaking his head. "That's cute. Are all you dirty cops this funny? Because I think I might've pegged you all wro—"

"Don't you ever shut up?"

"Not even when I'm sleeping." He says it with a seriousness that isn't _completely_ fake. He actually does talk in his sleep, apparently. And move. A lot. It's a problem. "So, what am I doing here?"

"Stasiak wants you to pay Guillermo a visit."

Brian nearly winces at the word. _Visit_. How many times has he paid _visits_ to people in the last few months? "I'm guessing you don't mean the social kind."

Randy ignores him. "He's a local drug dealer, works with Braga. Stopped paying his dues, and the boss's thinking he might be getting a little wild."

"Yeah? And what am I supposed to do about it?" He's kind of got an idea already; he just wants to know specifically how bad his morning's about to be.

And how bad Guillermo's is gonna be.

"Make sure he ain't gonna flip on us if his number comes up on the roster for the Braga investigation." He pushes off his car and takes a few steps forward, and Brian forces himself to stay leaning back against his car, legs and arms crossed, the picture of cool. "And _persuade_ him to make good on his financial arrangements."

Persuade. There's another word that Brian's not to fond of. On the other hand, though, the whole _financial arrangements_ bit is kind of a relief. If Stasiak wants to keep getting his bribes, that means he needs Guillermo alive. If it weren't for that….

Brian doesn't like to think about it.

"So, how's Stasiak want me to do this?" He's learning there are a lot of ways to make people do what someone wants them to, and it's bad enough that he has to do this shit; he'll let Stasiak do the thinking on it.

But then Randy smirks – and holy shit, that's a jacked up grill – and Brian thinks that maybe Stasiak's thinking isn't gonna be the best guiding light if he wants to keep his conscience anywhere close to intact.

"Put the fear of God in him, O'Conner," Randy practically purrs, and Brian feels his stomach give a sick sort of turn. He doesn't say anything, just clenches his jaw and tries to keep his face steady as Randy backs away and gets back in his car. It starts to move, and Brian thinks for a minute that he might be going, but just as he's passing Brian, he stops.

It's all Brian can do not to groan.

"And O'Conner, Stasiak wants it done by that bitch Ortiz's funeral," Randy says, leaning one massive arm out the window of his car. Brian wants to wipe that smug ass look right off his face, but something tells him he'd live to regret it. "It'd be a shame to have to bring Mia Toretto in for questioning during the funeral. Imagine what a scene that'd make."

He drives away then, before Brian can reach in the window and drag him out and show him the meaning of _scene_. And Brian waits until he can't see the taillights anymore to get in his car.

It's two o'clock in the morning by the time he drives out of the delivery bay of the FBI building.

It's time to go to work.


	3. Chapter 3

It's easier than he thinks it should be.

Not the sneaking in part. Although, now that he mentions it, that's pretty damn easy. This is a legit millionaire drug-dealing crime lord with the blood money mansion to prove it; Brian shouldn't be able to just hop the fence, knock out one measly thug – and he's talking about number, not size, because that guy was fucking huge, just not real observant – and break into Guillermo's office without at least breaking a sweat. It's pathetic.

But that's not what he's talking about. That doesn't bother him so much, because honestly, the sooner he gets this done, the better.

Nah, it's not the doing the deed that's the problem; it's the thinking about it. The feeling. It shouldn't be this easy to make himself do this shit, breaking into private property, choking out a guy whose only crime, so far as he _actually_ knows, is taking a paycheck from the wrong guy. He should have to struggle more with himself.

He doesn't, though. It just…happens. It's a role. It's a part that he plays, a mode he slips into, and it's almost like he's another person. At least, it is for now. It'll hit him eventually. A couple hours from now, when it's all said and done, it'll hit him like a fucking semi, and then he'll _wish_ it was as easy as it is now.

For now, though, it's too damn easy.

There are a couple ways he could do this, he thinks, as he scopes out the office. The damn thing's bigger than his whole apartment.

He could go upstairs to the guy's bedroom, give him one hell of a wake-up call. The FBI, for all he knocks it, is pretty thorough on its intel, and he's pretty sure he could make it up there without running into anyone else.

Except…there're a lot of things that could go sideways with that. One time, he walked in to find the guy a) not sleeping, and b) not alone. He was…a little tied up at the time, and while that made Brian's job a lot easier once the babes cleared out, there was just some shit that couldn't be unseen.

Besides, he's learned that some guys aren't as in-control of bodily functions when they just wake up as they should be, and he'd like to get out of this without smelling piss if at all possible.

That leads him to option number two. It's a different kind of wake-up call, and he thinks it's probably the best way to do it. It's the way he's going with, anyway, and he sits down on the corner of the desk, grabs the phone out of its cradle, and dials the number he memorized from the file in the car before he parked it a couple blocks away.

He gives it a few seconds. One ring. Two rings. That's okay; he's figured out it usually takes about to the third or fourth ring before they pick up, and thanks to Guillermo's _shitty_ security, he's actually good for time.

Sure enough, about halfway between the third and fourth rings, the line picks up. He doesn't wait for Guillermo to get a word out, though.

"Jarrod Guillermo," he says, and shit, he still can't get used to the way his voice sounds through the changer in his mask, It's low and metallic and just fucking eerie; it's unnatural. But he guesses it gets the job done. "I think you and me need to have a conversation."

_"Who are you?" _

Brian tries not to sigh. They ask the same damn thing every time. Who are you? What do you want? They never ask the important questions, the ones he thinks they should be asking, like 'Why the hell are you calling from my office phone? In my house?' Because he knows he wouldn't give a shit who they were or what they wanted if they were in his house at two in the morning sounding like the doll on fucking SAW.

But then again, if these guys were Einsteins, they wouldn't have gone into drug running anyway. And they definitely wouldn't have fallen in with Stasiak.

Yeah, he knows. Pot and kettle and shit.

"If you checked your caller ID, you know where I am. You have two minutes. You'll come in alone and unarmed." He doesn't bother telling him what'll happen if he doesn't, because Guillermo may be an idiot, but he's been in the business. Brian wouldn't be doing it like this if he hadn't covered all his bases. As far as Guillermo needs to know, he has. "Do you understand?"

There's a pause on the end of the line, but then, _"I understand."_

Brian hangs up the phone, then, and he's about to push off the desk when his hand bumps something. Instinctively – and because he's got approximately a minute-thirty to kill – he picks it up. There's Guillermo; he recognizes him immediately. But beside him, there's a little girl that takes Brian a little longer to recognize. She was in a picture in his file, with another Latino woman. According to the file Stasiak passed on to him, Guillermo's got an ex-wife and an eight-year-old daughter. It was up near the front of the folder, and Brian knows damn well there's a reason for that. There's not a whole lot better leverage than family.

Brian knows that too damn well.

There's a twinge of something that feels an awful lot like guilt in his gut, and he knows it's just a taste of what's coming. Soon as it hits, soon as this…_whatever it is_ switches off and he's back to being himself, back to being Brian O'Conner, this is gonna fucking tear him apart, just like it always does. For now, though, it's just a twinge.

Just to be on the safe side, he flips the picture face down.

Steeling himself, letting the cool wash over him again and the mask that's even more a disguise than the balaclava slide into place, he walks across the office to stand against the wall by the door. He knows he told Guillermo to come unarmed, and he knows it should be pretty damn obvious that he should do what he's told, but he knows better than to count on the brains of a guy like him.

So, instead, he stands by the door. He waits until he hears footsteps on the hardwood outside, his muscles tensing as he does. His one hand goes to the gun at his hip, and there's no telling what's gonna happen. Every one of Guillermo's guys could come rushing through that door right now, and there wouldn't be a whole hell of a lot Brian could do to stop them. Intimidation is the name of the game; it's all a bluff, and even though no one's ever called them before, that doesn't mean this won't be the day it happens.

It's kind of a rush. And he's gonna feel bad about that later, too, but for now, he just rolls with it. He lets his heartbeat ratchet up, lets his muscles tense in anticipation, because there's a better-than-good chance this could go sideways, a chance that, shit, he could die right now.

There's a part of him that kind of thinks he deserves it.

The bigger part, though…it knows better. He's doing what he has to do to protect the people he cares about, and he'll keep doing it until they're safe, and then he'll move on with his damn life. There's no other option. This shit's temporary, and there's gonna be a day when he can tell Stasiak to go fuck himself and put all this in his rearview.

In the meantime…

The door opens, and it's automatic. Soon as Brian sees the shape in the low light of the single desk lamp, he reaches out and clamps a hand on the back of the guy's neck, pushing him forward until the only option he has is to fall flat on his damn face or stumble forward like Brian wants him to. That's always been the way to do it: catch them off balance, get them when they're not expecting it. And as the door closes behind them, he's shoving Guillermo, still in his damn silk pajamas, into the office chair.

"Who the hell are—"

Brian slaps his hand over Guillermo's mouth with probably a little more force than he has to, but he doesn't really care. He don't feel right about roughing up the guy on principle, but he's seen his rap sheet, and the bastard probably deserves a hell of a lot worse.

That's what he tells himself anyway. Not that it helps.

He leaves it at that, though. He's got a gun and a knife, but he doesn't pull them out. The bluff's more important than the threat; a man's imagination is a hell of a lot scarier than anything Brian can come up with, and he can tell from the wide look in Guillermo's beady ass eyes that his imagination's on a fucking spin-out.

Brian's happy to let it keep spinning. "I talk; you listen," he says. "_Comprendes_?"

Guillermo starts to mumble something, but Brian gives him a Look – as much of one as he can manage with the ski mask, at least – and he quickly goes to just nodding. Brian takes that as his cue to let up off his mouth, and he does. He's still got one hand on the guy's collar, bunching it up until he's pretty sure he feels the fabric ripping, which he doesn't feel too bad about. The guy's probably got like ten of these things, and they probably cost more than Brian makes in months, so the bitch can deal.

"You know why I'm here, don't you, Jer?" he says almost friendly-like. He thinks that's a hell of a lot scarier than yelling. Draws a lot less attention, too. He sits down on the corner of the desk, and the chair's still close enough that he can keep a hand on Guillermo's neck, pushing him back in the desk chair until he's pretty sure he could tip it with a light shove. Which he might end up doing before it's all said and done. "You made a deal, remember?" And instead of waiting for a response, he moves his hand up from Guillermo's collar to grip the underside of his chin none-too-gently and bob his head up and down for him. "We keep the _Federales_ off your shipments; you compensate the services, right?"

Guillermo doesn't answer.

"_Right?_" Brian presses, and he gives Guillermo a little shove for emphasis.

_Huh, guess I was wrong_. The chair doesn't actually tip over. Although he thinks he feels one of the legs leave the carpet, 'cause the chair kind of bumps and jerks, and Guillermo lets out a noise that he probably didn't mean to.

It does the trick, though, because Guillermo starts nodding. Brian's really glad he's wearing gloves, now, because Guillermo's not a small man, and he's sweating like a fucking pig, so his double chin's getting nastier by the second.

Brian grits his teeth and pushes forward a little tighter. "So where's the compensation, Jer?" he snaps through gritted teeth, and now there's definitely two legs up on the desk chair. If Guillermo wasn't sitting so low in the seat, he'd have probably toppled over by now. And maybe it's that, or maybe it's the fact that a complete fucking stranger's got him pinned in his own desk chair with God only knows what in mind, but the guy lets out another sound that's a lot like a whimper. Brian leans in closer. Intimidation. "I didn't catch that."

"Y'all's shit is blowing up, man!" Guillermo spits. Literally spits. And damned if he doesn't seem to start finding his balls again, because his eyes harden a little bit, and Brian can see he's starting to lose him. "You think I wouldn't figure it out? I got guys, too. I know you've got IA on your ass, and it's just a matter of time." He's definitely getting his balls back, because the bastard actually smirks at him. "Your house is falling, _amigo_."

That's new to Brian. He hasn't heard anything about IA. But then, Stasiak doesn't exactly publish a newsletter, and sure as hell not to Brian. Besides, Brian's operating on a 'less is more' policy with Stasiak; he doesn't _want_ to know shit. So this IA shit? This is the first he's heard of it.

Guillermo doesn't need to know that, though.

He doesn't miss a beat. "If I was you, I'd be worrying about my own house," he says, and fuck, yeah, he's about to have to go there, and he already hates it, but he needs leverage back. He needs to tip the scales again.

Guillermo's already-narrow eyes narrow even more. "What the hell you talking about, gringo?"

Instead of answering right off the bat, Brian reaches back to the desk and grabs something. It's the picture from before, and he holds it up to where they both can see it. Soon as he does, Guillermo's eyes widen, and he knows he's touched a nerve. Now he's just got to bring it home.

"Cute kid," he says, and fuck, fuck, _fuck_, he's going to hell for this. This is crossing a line, but he doesn't have a choice. He keeps his voice steady somehow, and his hand doesn't even shake as he holds the picture. "She's your daughter, right? From your last marriage?" Like he said – FBI intel is thorough. "I bet you love her a lot, don't you?"

"You son of a bi—"

Brian silences him with a hard punch to the gut that knocks the air out of him, and he tightens his grip on the man's thick throat. He's not quite cutting off air, but it's a warning: he could.

And then he continues like nothing happened at all. "It's gotta suck, her living with her mom and all. Lakewood, right? But I guess seeing her sometimes is better than never seeing her again." And that…that's a threat. He knows Guillermo knows it, too. But just in case, "It'd be a real shame if anything happened to her, you know? Her mom, too. Shit, next to that, saying goodbye to a couple grand doesn't seem all that bad."

He leans back, then, because he knows he's made his point. He can see it in Guillermo's eyes: genuine fear. Because nothing's scarier than the thought of losing family. Nothing's a greater threat than something that threatens them. In that, he can sympathize with the guy. They're both being manipulated. They're both being used.

It's just the way of the world.

"Just remember," Brian says as he stands from the table, sitting the picture frame down deliberately so that it's facing Guillermo, "we're family, too. If our house falls…so does yours." And with that, he gives the man's thinning hair a rustle, and he walks right out knowing Guillermo's never gonna talk.

Because he did his job. He did what he was told.

He put the fear of God in him.


	4. Chapter 4

It's kind of funny that the metaphorical "semi" hits him just after he crosses a set of train tracks.

Unfortunately, Brian's too busy throwing up on the side of the road to appreciate the humor.

He crossed a line this time. He went too far, and he knows he had to do it, knows if he hadn't, it probably would've gotten a lot uglier. God only knows what he'd have had to do to shake Guillermo up like he needed to.

That doesn't change the fact that he threatened a kid. A fucking _kid_. It's one thing to rough up some drug dealers and dirty cops and shit – at least he can fool himself into thinking they had it coming.

But that little girl?

Another wave of nausea has him dry heaving into the tall grass. He's pretty sure nothing else's gonna come up, though – he hasn't eaten since…fuck, was that lunch, yesterday? – so he grits his teeth and tries to will spasms in his stomach and chest to stop. This isn't the first time this's happened, and he knows it won't be the last, but that doesn't make it any easier. He's never been afraid of anything in his life, but he thinks…he thinks he might be, now. Of himself. Of what he's going to do, of how far he's gonna go. Because quitting isn't even an option. The thought of them coming down on Mia…the thought of them catching Dom?

Cold, heavy dread settles in the pit of his stomach, and on the plus side, it stops the heaves, but on the downside, it just makes him feel sicker. Shit, if they catch Dom, he doesn't know what he'll do.

_I'll die before I go back. _

And he knows Dom meant it, and that…maybe that scares him, too. He's realizing there's not a whole hell of a lot he won't do to keep that from happening. Maybe nothing. And that? That scares him, not just because of what might happen, but because of what that might mean.

_It's always a Toretto_.

He's not ready to think about that, yet. Doesn't know if he ever will be. And there was a time when he thought he wouldn't have to. But now Dom's back in town; he knows he is. He just doesn't know what he's gonna do while he's here. If he knows Dom, though, shit's gonna start going down, and he's got a whole lot of damage control ahead of him.

Assuming Dom doesn't kill him, first.

That thought hurts a little. Fuck it, that thought hurts a lot. He knows he deserves it, pulling all the shit he did on Dom and his team, and he knows that letting him go didn't clear up all the red in his ledger. Shit, part of him kind of hopes Dom _does_ catch up with him, so that maybe they can settle the score, and he can stop feeling like this. Feeling like he's done wrong by him. Feeling like he owes him.

Feeling like he'd do anything for him.

Not 'to make it up to him.' Not 'to make things right.' Just _for him_. Period. And that's how he knows he's fucked six ways from Sunday.

The buzzing of his phone in his pocket snaps him out of his head, and he spits the muck from his mouth and fishes it out of his pocket. A text. Unknown number. Same old shit. One word.

_Status?_

Brian's response is just as brief. _Done. _Stasiak'll probably ask for details later, because he's a controlling dick, but Brian's too tired of seeing his insides for the time being, and he's got shit to do. He'd got to stop by his apartment and get dressed, maybe try to force something down for breakfast, although he's not putting too high a priority on that, and then he's got to get to the damn service and make sure the world doesn't explode.

Clearly, he's got a long fucking day ahead of him.

He's not getting anything done sitting on the side of the road, though, so he wipes his mouth – he might wipe his eyes, too, but there's no one around to prove it – gets in his car, and drives away.

* * *

It's five hours later, and Brian's forced to face just how badly he fucked up. He's watching Letty's funeral, and _fuck_, he wants nothing more than to look away, to avert his eyes and pretend he's somewhere else, but he doesn't let himself. They were friends, once upon a time; he owes her this at least.

He's got his jaws clenched so tight, he can feel his pulse throbbing in his teeth, and he blinks a few times. He's got eyes on Mia, and whatever relief he feels not seeing Dom there is blown to bits by the sight of Mia's tears, because even from where he's standing, he can see them.

He doesn't look away then, either, not even when he hears footsteps approaching and smells the familiar, stomach-turning cologne that he's come to associate with everything he hates in this world.

"Facial Recognition Software matched Toretto about ten minutes after he crossed the border," Stasiak says, but he doesn't sound happy about it. "I don't get it; I thought he'd show." And that'd be why.

Only Brian knows better. Dom's there alright; Brian…he can _feel_ it. He could always feel Dom's eyes. He guesses that should've been a neon-fucking-sign. He always knew when Dom was looking, and he's always kind of wondered what he saw.

Now, though, he's not so sure he wants to know. After everything he's done…he doesn't think he wants to know whether or not Dom sees it. Whether or not _he_ knows. He doesn't think he could handle disappointing him like that, and isn't that kind of a bitch? He's doing all this for him – _and Mia_, he thinks, and that's true, so he doesn't know why he feels kind of like he's lying to himself – and yet he feels his skin crawl with anxiously at the thought of them finding out. At the thought of them knowing what he's done these last four months.

But no, he feels him. He's there. He's definitely there, and Brian doesn't ever think he's felt so conflicted in his life. Because for every part of him that's disgusted with himself, every part of him that wants Dom to be as far away from Los Angeles as geographically possible, there's an equal, maybe even _stronger_ part that would give anything to see him again. To feel grounded again, because he's only ever felt that way when he was running with the crew. And he knows it's Dom that did it, that pulled him in and held him there, because he was…fuck, he was just _solid_.

The service is over not long after, and it's time to head back to the office. Just before he's about to leave, though, he can't help it; he glances back. It's stupid, because he knows he's not gonna see anything, but he still _looks_ up at the hill, at the oil drills.

And then he gets in his car, because the real world's calling, and it's time to go to work.

Nine hours later, he's still there. Pennings called them all into the conference room, and that's where Brian's sitting now, waiting for the NOS he chugged a half hour ago to kick in, because he's worn the fuck out.

When Penning comes in, Brian sits up a little straighter, because he wasn't just about to fall asleep in the desk chair. Seriously. That'd be unprofessional.

"I just got off the phone with Deputy Director Larson," Penning says as he walks in, and Brian tries to track him across the room with his eyes. "If we don't make serious inroads into the Braga case in the next seventy-two hours, they're gonna shut us down."

If Brian had any more energy than he does right now, he'd probably get really worked up and irritated. As it is, he just glances around the room, and lets Trinh do the talking.

"I know I'm the newbie here, but why the clock now?" she asks.

"Because it's been two years, and the last three agents we sent to infiltrate his organization have come back in body bags."

That one stings, and Brian catches Stasiak giving him a look out of the corner of his eye. He knows that's a sore spot for Brian.

Penning, on the other hand, either doesn't realize, or he just doesn't care, because he keeps right on going. "He's moved more heroine across the border than Escabar did in ten years. This guy's becoming one of our biggest..."

Brian zones out for a second as pictures come up on the screen, and Brian can't help looking down that the fifth picture on the bottom. Ortiz, Letty, with a big orange fucking _deceased_ plastered across the picture.

_Fuck_.

He drops his eyes to the table, and he's just so _tired_. Of all of this. He wants to crawl into a dark hole somewhere and pretend the world doesn't exist for a little while, because right now, it just kind of _sucks_.

"—on David Park?"

The name gets Brian's attention, and he looks up again to see Penning looking dead at him.

"Isn't he our ticket into the organization?"

Luckily, Trinh fits her eager-newbie role to a tee and jumps in before Brian has to try to string together an answer. "We're running the name through city and county databases, sorting the possibilities. We've got over five-hundred already."

"Park's insignificant," Stasiak says blandly. "Sounds like another jerk-off to me."

And finally, Brian's head's caught up enough to make coherent sentences. "It's not. Without Park, Braga wouldn't have drivers to move his shipments." It's amazing what a whole lot of hate for someone can accomplish; he's pretty sure he's only conscious right now to spite Stasiak. "Cross check traffic. Illegal modifications, street racing – this guy'll definitely have a record. We'll find him."

Penning studies him for a second, and then Brian sees it: a miniscule little nod that means he's at least scored one point today. "We better."

It's not a big win, but it's got Brian smiling as he leaves the conference room. He and Trinh are going to get to work sorting those names, and even though that's gonna be another few hours, Brian doesn't really mind. Trinh's actually kind of fun to work with. What she lacks in experience, she makes up for with energy, and Brian can appreciate that. He remembers a time when he was kind of like her. Granted, his field of interest was a little less…lawful, but he remembers diving into it with that same grinning gusto. He can respect it.

"Well, what do you know?" Stasiak's voice, as per usual, precedes him. Brian doesn't even have to look to know he's coming up behind them. "Your boy Toretto's red Chevelle was spotted in his old neighborhood. We're gonna bring his ass in."

Brian can hear the sulk, though, and he can see it, too, when Stasiak keeps walking past him. He knows he ain't got shit, so he keeps smiling. "Not in your car, you're not," he mutters, and it's mostly for his own benefit – because seriously, the idea of Stasiak trying to catch Dom, even in something _other_ than his gramps-mobile, is actually fucking hilarious – but he catches Trinh smiling, too.

Yeah, she's definitely alright.


	5. Chapter 5

In keeping with the trend, he didn't get much sleep last night. The NOS kicked in at the wrong time, and he ended up staying up an extra two hours after he got off work looking through all the Park profiles he and Trinh had sorted through.

What little sleep he did get kind of sucked anyway, though, so it wasn't a big loss. He had some real shitty dreams – the 'wake-up-sweaty-and-breathing-hard-and-not-in-a-good-way' kind of dream – and he might've missed his alarm clock, and now he's coming into work about half an hour late running on a protein bar and a cup of coffee, getting ready to tell Trinh what he thinks about the profiles they put toge—

_What the fuck?_ He does a double take at the interrogation room, and yeah, that's definitely Mia sitting there. Across from Stasiak. _What the fuck?_

The first instinct he has is to walk straight into the interrogation room, grab Stasiak by his ugly-ass tie, and beat the ever-loving shit of that lying little bastard. They had a deal. He's supposed to lay of Mia.

He realizes, though, that that might not end well for anybody, so he manages to reign it in and walks immediately over to the phone on Trinh's desk. He dials a quick number, and he's cool again. Ice cold. His fingers aren't shaking or anything, and his voice is dead even as he says, "Hi. This is Forsythe in evidence." Forsythe's one of Stasiak's familiars, and he's pretty sure that'll be enough to get Stasiak running. "I need Stasiak down here right away to sign some greenies. Thanks."

Then he hangs up the phone, and it's more for the sake of appearances than general interest that he turns to Trinh. "Hi. Hey." He waits until Trinh looks up at him and hands her the files. "Okay, I narrowed it down to fifty or so David Parks. What I'd like you to do is run the make and model on each of them. Okay?"

"Alright."

"Thank you." He hears the buzz of the door, and waits until he sees Stasiak heading for evidence before heading for the interrogation room. He buzzes in and opens the door, and walks in like he's supposed to be there, because that's the trick: acting like you're supposed to be there. "Hey, Tyler, we got a transfer," he says, and he forces himself to stay smooth and casual as he walks up to Mia. Like this is just another red tape jump rope. Like he's done it a hundred times before.

Like this isn't the first time he's seeing the woman he lied to, dated, and tore apart the family of.

She doesn't actually say anything, but her eyes are just as hard as they were all those years ago when she first found out he was a cop, and he's just praying that she's not gonna make this hard.

_ You don't have to like me,_ he tries to convey in a look, _you just have to play along._

And to his relief, she does. She gathers up her purse, and lets him guide her out of the building and across the street to the parking lot. She even lets him open the door for her into his car, and then again into the diner.

He's not fool enough to think that means she's coming around, though. He doesn't blame her, and the first thing she says to him doesn't come until _after_ they've finished their coffees. He actually thought about getting some real breakfast, but he's too busy trying not to bounce in his damn seat – the coffee's probably not helping – to eat, and she's not eating, so he doesn't think that'd be right.

"I'm almost done," she says after an almost unbearable silence, and she's looking down at her near-empty coffee cup before sitting it down with a sharp clink and looking up at him at last. "Why don't you tell me why you brought me here, Brian?"

Brian knows the Torettos well enough to know when a request isn't actually a request, and this? This is one of those times.

Problem being, he's not _really _sure how to explain that. He's spent the whole silence running through his head what he was gonna say to her. Shit, he's spent the last few _years_ trying to figure that out, and he's drawing a blank. He can't tell her the most immediate reason. He can't tell her that he's got a deal with Stasiak, and he can't let Stasiak renege on that, because as soon as he does, who knows where the fuck that'll go.

He can't tell her the long game, either, though, because apologizing for ruining someone's family and telling them that, in the end, you really just want to protect them isn't something you do over shitty diner coffee and the world's most awkward silence.

So, he sighs, leans back, and settles for something somewhere in between. "You know they're gonna capture Dom, Maybe worse. I don't want you getting tangled up in this so stay away from him." It's a scare tactic, he knows. Another fucking bluff, and he hates himself for doing it to Mia, because this is another line he doesn't want to cross. But he can't…he can't let her get involved. He's worked so hard to keep her out of the line of fire, and he can't have her running right back into it.

It sounds so selfish. Shit, it probably is. But even though he doesn't want all this shit these last few months to be for nothing, that's not _really_ why he says it. He says it because he doesn't want her to get hurt, and he's thinking that the only way to do that is to keep her out of this. As far out of it as possible.

Unfortunately, she doesn't see it that way.

"That's what you have to say to me after five years?" she says. "All of the sudden, you care what happens to me?"

_No,_ he wants to say. _I've always cared. _He's doing all this shit for them, for her and Dom, and he can't even tell her. Because if she hates him now, if she's looking at him like that _now_, he doesn't think he could stand to see how she would look at him then.

"What I did to you was wrong," he tries instead, except it comes out sounding so…inadequate. "I'm sorry. It was—it was the hardest thing I ever had to do."

He knows as soon as the words leave his mouth that they're the wrong ones.

"I'm sorry, too, Brian," Mia tells him, and _fuck_, her eyes are burning into his, and it feels like he's got lungs full of exhaust. "I'm _so_ sorry you had to come into my home and pretend to love me. I'm _so_ sorry that you ripped my family apart. I'm very sorry that that was hard for you."

He wants to say something, _anything_. Wants to make her understand. But there aren't words for what he wants to express; there's no way to explain to her how sorry he is, and the only way he can show her, she can never _ever_ know about.

"I lied to you." He can at least admit to what he's done. Confess. Own up. D) all of the above. "I lied to Dom. I lied to everybody. It's what I do best; it's why the Fed recruited me." He's not going to try to justify it; it is what it is. He just wants Mia to know that he understands what he did. That he's not under any illusions of how badly he fucked this up.

She just kind of nods, and that's probably the worst thing she could've done, because it means she agrees. Lying's what he does best. Nothing else. Even though he met her undercover, even though he lied, she still knows him better than most people do that know him as O'Conner, and the fact that she _agrees_ is like a fucking knife in his chest.

And what she says next is even worse. "Maybe you're lying to yourself."

Brian takes a deep breath, mostly just to make sure he still remembers how. He hates it, because she's saying what he's been thinking. She's saying what he doesn't _want_ to think.

"Maybe you're not the good guy pretending to be the bad guy. Maybe you're the bad guy pretending to be the good guy. You ever think about that?"

He's amazed he can still find his voice. "Every day," he tells her. She has no idea.

And he hopes she never will.

Part of him is relieved when she gets up from the booth and walks away, but then she stops, and turns around, and he steels himself for another knife. For another blow that he knows he deserves, and knows is still gonna hurt just the same.

"I always wondered," she says, "why'd you let my brother go that day?" But there's a look in her eyes, and he can't help thinking it's like she already has an answer in her head. Like she already knows, or at least suspects.

He wishes he had as much insight, but truth be told, there's so many damn reasons it could be…. "I don't know," he says, and truer words have never been spoken. Maybe it's like he told Rome back in Miami, and he was making up for old mistakes. Maybe he felt like he owed him. Maybe he felt like Dom didn't deserve to go back to jail. Maybe he couldn't bear the thought of Dom making good on that promise of his to die before he went back there, because losing him like this is bad enough; losing him _like that_ would be fucking unbearable. And he thinks…he thinks that maybe he knows why that is, but what the hell's he supposed to do with it?

As he watches Mia walk away again, he lets out a sigh from the deepest part of his chest, somewhere behind all the knives and exhaust.

"Shit."


	6. Chapter 6

Brian finishes off another cup of coffee at the diner, but he still hasn't worked up much of an appetite, so he heads back to the office. He's on a time limit here; he's got to get this shit with Braga worked out.

"Brian!"

Trinh's voice greets him as he comes off the elevator, and he intentionally slows his walking pace a little so the shorter woman doesn't have to run quite so quick in those heels of hers to catch up. He tells himself that, next year, for Christmas, he's buying her some damn Chucks before she falls and breaks her neck.

He turns as she catches up to him. "I got the cross-checks on David Park back and have a list of possibles."

"Right," Brian says, "what do you got?" And he's glad Trinh dresses pretty modest, because to the outside observer, it'd probably look like he's trying to see down her shirt, the way he's looking at the folder she's holding up for him. Which he isn't. He really, _really_ isn't.

Trinh immediately launches into the list. "A forty-five year old male in an '06 Sion with three reckless driving tickets."

"No." Too old.

"An '01 Chevy Tahoe—"

"No." He would _pay_ to see someone race one of those. Take a turn over a hundred mph in one of those tanks, that shit'd flip like a coin.

Trinh's not discouraged, though. "Two Mini Coopers, an '06 and an '07," she tries, and when he doesn't bite, she tries another. "A Toyota hybrid.

"Hell no." He'd pay to see someone race one of those, too, but for a whole different reason. Anything that whistles when it drives is right the fuck out.

Apparently it's time for the speed round, now, 'cause Trinh starts firing them off. "A '98 Saturn, a '95 Sebring, a '98 Nissan 240 with an illegal mod."

Oh, and there's the magic words. "Wait," he says. "That's it."

"What?"

"The 240 with the illegal mod" They've stopped, and Brian flips back to the sheet she just passed, scanning over the page.

Trinh looks up at him, confusion written all over her face. "How do you know?" she says.

"Because that's something I'd drive."

Seems like that's good enough for Trinh – seriously, for the new kid on the block, she's not nearly as annoying as he expected – because she runs off and gets him the address, and just like that, he's back in the car and headed for Park's.

It's a run-down apartment building across from a discount store that he thinks he remembers doing a bust on for receiving stolen property, but he doesn't really mind. He's feeling pretty good right now. He's thinking he might be able to get the "inroad" Penning's looking for and put the dogs off their heels for a few more days at least. Buy himself a little more time. This whole thing can't be a total loss. Maybe if they can work out the Braga thing, he can find a way to make Letty's deal work out posthumously.

He gets out of his car, and he's about to start walking to the building, but he gets a little sidetracked checking out the Nissan parked in front of his. It's some pretty sweet wrench work, even if it does belong to a crooked little shit.

It almost makes him a little sad knowing it's probably gonna join hundreds of other sweet rides in an FBI impound lot before this is all said and done.

The sound of shattering glass above him snaps his eyes and his attention away from admiring Park's 240, and he looks up to see—

_Holy shit_.

David Park is hanging out the fucking window, and Brian doesn't have to look more than a blink to know exactly who it is holding him.

He takes off like a bat out of hell. He can hear Park screaming as he runs around the corner, and he throws the door open and sprints inside. He takes the steps two, sometimes even three at a time, and he's got his gun at the ready when he hits the fourth floor.

There's an open door a little down the hallway, and Brian runs for it—

And stops dead just inside the doorway. Because his eyes have found the window, or more importantly, what's standing in front of the window, and even though he knew, it's one thing to catch a glimpse. This is different, though. This is…fuck, he's _there_. In the room. In the flesh. Same white shirt, same broad shoulders, same inexplicable _presence_ that fills the whole damn room, and for a second, Brian can't move.

But then he hears David's voice again. "Come on, man. I know shit, just let me up! I told you I gotta talk to Braga!" he hears him saying, and that snaps him out of his daze. He's here because Park can get him in the race, can get him closer to Braga, and he can't do that if it's fucking pancaked on the sidewalk.

"Bring him up, Dom," he says, and his feet are working again, which is good. "Bring him up." But the second one doesn't sound as forceful. He's kind of distracted, to be honest; Dom's turning his head slowly, and Brian knows this isn't gonna be easy.

"You here to take me in, O'Conner?" Dom's voice is low, and he doesn't know how the fuck he hears it over Park's screaming and the traffic noises outside, but he does. Shit, he _feels _it, deep and rumbling in his chest, and even if it's a challenge, Brian can't help thinking it's good to hear it again.

Park's voice, on the other hand. "Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!" he's shouting over and over again, and Christ, he's going with that for his last words? Because he knows Dom doesn't bluff, and he thinks Park probably knows it too, the way he's freaking out; Dom _will_ drop him, and they're on the fourth floor. A fall like that, especially head first….

Park's not looking at a happy landing.

"Shut up!" Dom shouts, and it cuts through all the noises like the roar of an engine cuts through the night. And shit, now he knows he's in trouble, because he's getting metaphorical, and this needs to _stop_.

"Letty was my friend, too," he tells him. He honestly has no clue how to get through to Dom; Letty's the first and best thing he can think of.

Dom doesn't even look at him. "You weren't anyone's friend."

That…that hurts. It hurts a lot. Facing the seething fury of two Torettos in that many hours – he'll be lucky if he gets out of this with his psyche intact.

On the plus side, at least he's not the only one having a bad day.

"Yo, can you guys talk about this later? And pull my ass up!" Park shouts.

Brian ignores him. "She was running for this guy Braga, and things went bad," he tells Dom, even though he's thinking Dom probably already knows a little of it. Why else would he be here? "I'm gonna get these guys, Dom." He'll get them if it's the last fucking thing he does, because even if Dom doesn't think so, they were _all_ his friends, and he still cares about them. He's going to avenge Letty's death, and he's going to keep Dom and Mia safe. But the only way of doing that he has right now is about one muscle spasm away from falling to his death, and that would kind of throw a wrench in Brian's plans. "Now let me do my job and bring him up."

Dom doesn't do it just yet, though. "I'm gonna kill this Braga," Dom says, and Brian knows he means it. Shit, he'd do it, too, if he wasn't…what he is. "And anyone else that gets in my way."

And then he lets him go, and before Brian can even think of cursing, he's leaping forward to try to grab the guy. There's no way he could make it in time, and for a single crushing second, he thinks he's lost his lead.

When he reaches the window, though, he sees Park holding onto a curtain. He's still there. Still alive. Still a viable lead. And as he's hauling Park back into the building, Brian kind of wonders if this is what Dom had planned all along.

_Shit, Dom_.

He looks over his shoulder, but he pretty much knows he's not gonna see anything. He's right. Dom's long gone.

He doesn't go looking for him. He wants to; shit, but he wants to. But on the other hand, the less he knows, the better. With Mia safely out of Stasiak's hands for now – he just wishes he could've seen the look on that lying bastard's face when he came back to find Mia gone – he just needs to focus on getting to Braga.

He brings Park back to the office, and he happens to know the interrogation room is open, so he makes a bee line for it.

At least, he tries to.

"O'Conner!"

Brian deliberately ignores Stasiak, no matter how pissed he is. Or maybe _because_ of how pissed he is, because shit, he's pissed too. Stasiak broke their deal; Stasiak went behind his back and brought Mia in, and she's off-fucking-limits, and he doesn't mind Stasiak knowing so.

He's trying to be the bigger man, ignoring him. It doesn't quite work out that way, though.

"O'Conner!" Stasiak shouts again. He's getting closer, walking as fast as his short legs'll carry him. "If you ever release a witness of mine again—"

The rest is lost, because Stasiak grabs Brian by the arm, and that shit's not gonna fly. Stasiak whips him around, and he's already waiting, grabbing him by the back of his blazer and slamming his face straight into the marble wall. And it's probably going a little overboard, kneeing him in the gut, too, but what can he say? He's only human, and Stasiak deserves it. He can't let the guy walk all over him, can't let him cross him like that. He'll take following orders, but he won't take that kind of bullshit, because the second he does, it's over. The second he lets Stasiak get by with it, he'll open the doors for a whole ass-load of this shit, and he's come too far, done too much to let that happen.

Not to mention, it just feels _really fucking good_ to knock him on his ass. That's four months of pent-up anger and frustration right there; Stasiak deserves every ounce of it.

"That's enough!" Penning says. He's pushing through the crowd of people that have already gathered in the, what, two seconds since he put Stasiak down? And Brian thinks it's pretty unnecessary, because he wasn't actually planning on hitting him anymore. He's made his point.

A couple of Stasiak's buddies help him up, and Brain thinks he hears him tell them he's fine, but it's kind of hard to tell with all the blood on his face. It looks like he got his nose the worse, and Brian's okay with that. A little bit of swelling'll make it a lot harder for him to look down it at people. Hell, this could be a good thing for the guy. A learning experience.

Stasiak clearly doesn't see it that way. "You're through, O'Conner," he says, and Brian can't tell if he's not looking at him because he's that mad, or because he's still a little dazed from eating the wall like that.

Stasiak's threat really should scare him; he knows this. It'll probably catch up with him, like everything else does, but right now, the adrenaline and the satisfaction's keeping him nice and above it all. Stasiak needs to understand that, just because he's got Brian backed into a corner, doesn't mean he's got him tamed. And if that bastard ever pulls any shit on Mia again, Brian'll do a hell of a lot worse than bust his nose.

Penning acts about as impressed with the display as Brian is. "I said that's enough." And around here, his word is law. The show's clearly over, and everyone starts dispersing and going back to what they were doing. "Stasiak, go get yourself cleaned up."

"What? He hit me first! You—"

"This isn't the cub scouts," Penning interrupts. "Now, go on! You're bleeding on my floor."

Brian ain't gonna lie: it's good to see Stasiak put in his place every once in a while. He acts like he's the shit, but he isn't the biggest fish in this particular pond, and when Penning turns on him, even though he knows he's about to get chewed out, Brian's got the overwhelming urge to thank his boss for knocking Stasiak down a peg.

He wisely keeps it to himself.

As Stasiak leaves, Penning walks a little closer to Brian, and Brian steels himself for the inevitable coal-hauling he's about to get.

Instead, Penning just sighs. "O'Conner, do you know the difference between a cop and a criminal?"

Brian can actually think of a few answers to that, but most of them are a little too personal, so he plays dumb. "What?"

"One bad judgment call." And doesn't Brian know that? "Keep your shit in line, son." And that's the end of it, he guesses, because Penning turns to Park. "Have a good time," he says, and claps him on the shoulder.

Brian takes that as his cue to get this thing going again, so he steers Park inside. "Take a seat."


	7. Chapter 7

As it turns out, Brian's day takes a hell of a turn for the better. Park flips in next to no time at all, and Brian can't tell if that's more because he's afraid of what Brian'll do – he's realized a little side effect of his display with Stasiak is that this guy's pretty much piss-his-pants scared of him – or what he's afraid _Dom_'ll do if Brian lets him walk.

Which he may or may not have threatened to do.

And then there's the meeting afterwards. He gets the double benefit of seeing Stasiak with his busted nose, and shit, it's _busted_, and getting to hear Penning come as close to singing his praises as the guy'll ever come. It's probably a good thing he's as tired as he is, because all he does is pump his fist a little when Penning calls him up to bat on the street racing. Otherwise, he think he might start dancing. This is his world; this is what he's good at.

All that's pretty fucking great, but he thinks the highlight of the day still comes later, when Trinh pulls up the list of imports the FBI's impounded. He's kind of like a teenager getting his hands on the SI swimsuit edition for the first time, and he's actually pretty proud of himself for not drooling all over himself looking at them.

After that, it's a lot of long hours in the garage, and Brian doesn't mind that a bit. It takes him back. All that time he spent at DT's, back when he still wasn't real good at telling his ass from his elbow when it came to building a car. Honestly, thinking back, he's amazed Dom never got fed up with him. But no, that wasn't Dom's style. He'd just show him what to do once, and then he'd let Brian do it, and it was just so _easy_ then.

And then there's Miami. He put in a lot of wrench time on that Skyline – damn, he misses that car; it's probably why he picks those two R34's out of the lot – and between that and working at Tej's, he ended up getting some mad skills under the hood.

He still ain't got shit on Jimmy, and he knows Dom could gearhead circles around his ass, but still…he's got this. This is his niche, and even though the hours are long, this is the most relaxed he's been in a while.

By the end of the next afternoon – he works through the night _again_, and he wouldn't be surprised if he's got more NOS in his system than his damn car – he's cannibalized one of the Skylines for parts, swapped the RB26DETT engine of the suped-up Skyline for the GT-R's VR38, and installed two fresh tanks of wet nitrous. He's also swapped the all-wheel drive train for the rear-wheel, because he learned the hard way with an old Mazda that AWD is shit for drifting, and he tunes the ECU to handle all the new mods. After all that and a fresh coat of paint, he's feeling pretty damn pleased with himself.

He takes it on a test drive that afternoon, but the real test comes that night, when he pulls into the address in Korea Town for one hell of a maiden voyage. And yeah, he thinks as he gets out of his new Frankenstein, this is definitely his niche. He may be playing a part, but he feels like he fits in here a hell of a lot more smoothly than he does at his real job in the FBI, and it occurs to him that maybe that should worry him, but now's not the time. Now, he just lets it all wash over him, all the familiarity, the energy.

And tries really hard not to laugh at all the punks that think they're the shit just 'cause they think they got game. "Tries" being the operative word here, because seriously, anyone that talks about himself in the first person deserves to get laughed at.

He sobers real quick, though, when he catches sight of a 1970 Primer Chevelle SS, but he catches himself in time to keep from doing anything more than glancing inside it. That's enough; he sees _him_ behind the wheel, and shit just got a whole lot more interesting.

Sure enough, when he gets up to the driving range – and for the record, who the fuck needs their own personal _driving range_? – he sees Dom come up some stairs following Gisele Yashar, Braga's liaison.

The look Dom gives him kind of throws him. His eyes are supposed to be hard like they were back at the apartment, but seeing him now…shit, if Brian didn't know any better, he'd say Dom's almost smiling. There's a flash in his eyes, a hint of a smirk, and Brian feels his pulse ratchet up a few BPM's that have nothing to do with the high stakes race he's about to run. Because actually, that doesn't bother him. He's excited, yeah. Eager. But the race doesn't make him uneasy.

Dom, on the other hand….

Brian remembers him talking about his cool, about how it was his meal ticket, but _shit_, Dom's smooth. He's still got this smirk, this easy confidence of someone that knows he's got shit on lock and is just waiting for everyone else to figure it out. He's always had it, and Brian can't decide if seeing it again feels good, or feels really _really_ bad.

He decides, in the end, not to think about it, and just lets himself enjoy the show. These people think they're the shit, but they've never stared down Dominic Toretto. He feels like the only kid in the room that's in on the joke, and he doesn't try to keep from smiling as Dom stares down Fenix Rise, the resident big man, like he's nothing more than a little dog with a loud bark.

Dom ain't like that. Brian won't pretend he knows everything there is to know about the man – not even close – but he knows him well enough to know that he's _all_ bite. All act, no talk, and he's got mad respect for that.

Unfortunately, respect only goes so far, and a half hour, two car crashes, and a busted-ass front bumper later, Brian's fucking _pissed. _He had him. He _had him_, and he goes and pulls that shit, hitting his tail end.

He gets out of his car and stalks up to Dom, and by the time he reaches him, he still hasn't decided if he wants to hit him yet. "Least we know you can't beat me straight up," he says as Dom turns around, and _fuck_, he wants to hit him. Doesn't he get it? Dom's supposed to be smart, and here he is, fucking everything up! Everything Brian's worked for these last few months, trying to land Braga and clear his name – everything Letty _died_ for – all blown to hell, because he's Dominic-fucking-Toretto and can't let someone take care of shit for once. He thinks he's the only one that can solve problems, and now he's gone and screwed everything up, and he has the _balls_ to stand there and look at Brian like he's the one that's out of line.

"I didn't know there were any rules," he says. The smug bastard. And Brian can't even appreciate that this is the closest he's been to Dom in five years, that they're in arm's reach and not beating the ever-loving shit out of each other, because he's so _mad_. It's not about losing – okay, yeah, maybe it's a little bit about that. But Brian _had this_, and now Dom's gone and thrown his whole plan for a tailspin.

He wants to tell him. He wants to scream at him, to shout, to make him understand what he's just done, but he can't do that

Even if he wanted to, he doesn't get the chance.

"Now that's what I call real driving!" Fenix says as he comes walking up.

"Nah, that's bullshit, man!" Brian snaps.

"Go cry to your mamma, eh?"

Brian knows he's being blown off, and there's not a whole hell of a lot he can do about it. He's got some serious damage control to do, and he doesn't have time to waste on being mad. That can come later.

He's driving out the way he came when he sees Dwight standing by his car. "Yo, nutsack!" he calls. "Let me tell you something, man. Muscle beats import every time. You know what I'm saying? Every time!"

Brian just keeps driving, but as he does, he's definitely getting an idea. And as pissed as he is about the race, the idea he's got swimming around his head is enough to put a hint of a smile on his face.

The smile falls when his pocket starts to buzz.

_Same place. 1 hour. _

Fuck.


	8. Chapter 8

A little over an hour later, Brian's pulling into the FBI loading bay. His tires squeal as his car jerks to a stop near the other two that are already there, and he's cursing himself, because it shouldn't have taken him so long to get over here. He got caught up following Campos, and then he'd had to wait for them to clear out of that backroom so he could sneak in and nab their glasses – they're sitting in his console now, in an evidence bag – and by the time he got out, he only had about five minutes to get all the way across town.

He hauled ass to get over here, and he's still about fifteen minutes late. Fucking LA night traffic. It's the middle of the night, and the streets were still a nightmare. He guesses that's the problem with weekends. Besides the fact that he doesn't get them.

He sees Stasiak standing by his car, and that doesn't do anything to brighten his mood. Stasiak only comes in person when it's a big deal, or he's pissed about something. Considering his little stunt with Mia a couple days ago, he knows it's definitely the latter, and now that he's had some time to sit on it, he's thinking that maybe he's had better ideas than doing what he did. Stasiak's the kind of guy that doesn't take being humiliated very easily; he's kind of worried what the guy'll do to get back at him.

But then, something tells Brian that if he was gonna roll on him to Penning, he wouldn't be here right now. No, he's thinking Stasiak's got another job for him, which is both a relief and a kick in the face, because while it means he's still got his job and Mia's still safe for now, it also means he's about to have a really shitty night.

Again.

Waiting's not gonna help, though – if anything, it's just gonna piss Stasiak off more, and he's thinking he should keep that to a minimum for now – so Brian steels himself and gets out of the car.

He barely even gets the door open before something closes around the back of his neck and he's shoved roughly forward. It's enough to knock him off balance, and he hits his hands and knees hard. The asphalt bites into both, but he ignores it; he's about to push himself up, to figure out who the fuck's going at him, because he can see Stasiak right the hell in front of him, but he barely gets one foot on the ground under him before he gets another shove.

He catches himself, but when he looks up—

_Crack!_

Something hard and solid connects with the back of his head, and his vision flashes black for a second, but he doesn't pass out. His ears are ringing, and his stomach flips, but this time, when he feels something grab the back of his shirt, he grabs back. His hand closes around what he's pretty sure is a wrist, and he throws his elbow out.

The grunt that sounds behind him tells him he's struck gold, and he gives the wrist he's holding a jerk. In a flash, he's got the son of a bitch that hit him down on the concrete, one knee between his shoulder blades and his arm twisted behind his back so tight that one good jerk'll dislocate his fucking shoulder. Maybe break his wrist to boot.

It's Forsythe. He'd recognize that shitty comb-over anywhere, and he sees the gun lying on the ground beside him where the ashole must've dropped it.

He's lucky the safety's on. Forsythe, he means. Because if that shit had been off, Brian would've done a hell of a lot more than pistol whipped his sorry ass.

"You wanna hit me?" he growls instead, giving Forsythe's wrist a torque for emphasis. "You wanna hit me, you son of a bitch?"

"That's enough, O'Conner! Let him go."

Brian looks up to see Stasiak staring down at him, and it'd probably be a hell of a lot scarier a look on his face if he didn't look like a fucking raccoon.

He's not convinced. His adrenaline's still pumping, and shit, Forsythe had a _gun_. He doesn't know what the hell's going on, but he's not sure he's willing to give up his leverage.

"What's this about, Stasiak?" he says. His head's pounding a steady, booming pulse in his ears, and his vision's still a little cloudy around the edges, but he's keeping his eyes narrowed and his face steely, because it's like that thing with Mia: if he gives any, he doesn't know what Stasiak'll try to pull next.

Stasiak just narrows his eyes, although it's hard to tell how much of it's intentional and how much of it's swelling from that nice little busted nose Brian gave him. "I said let him go."

And Brian figures, if Stasiak was really gonna do something, he'd be doing it instead of asking him nicely – his version of nicely, anyway – so he does. He gives Forsythe one last shove into the concrete for good measure, and then stands, grabbing the gun as he goes and shoving it in the back of his jeans. Maybe he'll give it back, if Forsythe's a good boy, or maybe he won't. Either way, it makes him feel better having it.

Forsythe gets to his feet a little gingerly, and Brian thinks he might know where his elbow caught him now, because he's walking kind of funny as he walks back over to Stasiak. When he turns around, he fixes Brian with a glare that falls a little flat, what with how his eyes are watering and all.

"Are you shitting me with this guy, Stasiak?" Because _seriously_? He knows the guy works evidence, but this is just sad. He'd heard he got demoted for roughing up a few too many suspects, but he's really starting to doubt it.

"Shut the fuck up, O'Conner," Stasiak snaps, and oh, he thinks he's big and scary. And vaguely, it occurs to Brian that maybe he should be scared, except he's always had a little bit of a problem with that. The concussion he's about ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure he has probably isn't helping. "Did you think I was gonna let you get by pulling that shit with Toretto?"

Brian's temper flared. "The shit I pulled?" he says, pointing to himself, and when he steps in closer, he thinks he sees Stasiak's throat bob. Good. "You had no right bringing Mia in. We have a deal, remember? I play errand boy for you, and you and your guys stay the hell away from Mia Toretto."

"That was before Dominic Toretto came back to—"

"Dom being here doesn't change shit!" And yeah, Stasiak definitely looks a little shaken. He's trying to look hard, to stare down his swollen ass nose at Brian like he always does, but Brian can tell he wasn't expecting this. Which kind of makes him wonder, "How'd you see this going, Stasiak? You think I'd show up here, you'd get your boy to rough me up? Scare me a little?" Clearly, Stasiak doesn't know him at all. Violence doesn't scare him. He grew up around it, was practically raised on it. Getting beat on a little bit is more annoying than anything.

And Brian is definitely annoyed.

He stalks right up to Stasiak – Forsythe's staying clear, he notices – and now the tables are turned, because he's staring Stasiak down. He's cool. Cold. Fuck, he's frigid, because he knows that if he screws this up, if he pushes too far or backs down too much, this could all come down on him. He's walking a thin line, and he knows it. He's got to keep walking, though.

Stasiak answers by squaring up his shoulders and scowling, and Brian can't help thinking he looks _pissed_. "I think you forgot where you stand here, O'Conner," he practically snarls. "You don't _get_ to tell me what to do. I tell you what to do, and you _do it!_" He's shouting by the end; he's in Brian's face, and it's taking every ounce of self control Brian has to stand there and take it. "Or else I rain hell down on Dominic Toretto, Mia Toretto, and anyone that's ever so much as smiled in their general-fucking-direction, your punk ass included. Do you understand? I own you, O'Conner. _I. Own. You_." He punctuates each word with a jab of his finger into Brian's chest, and _fuck_, Brian should snap the damn thing off, but he can't.

Because Stasiak's right. It's bad enough that he's got him on Mia, but after all the shit he's done for Stasiak, there's no doubt in his mind that the snake'd find some way to pin it on him. And even if he thinks he could throw it right back at him, he's pretty sure they'd both come out smelling like shit, and if he thought those charges for aiding and abetting were bad, this _particular_ brand of shit would make that seem like a parking ticket.

He grits his teeth. His fists are clenched at his sides so hard that they hurt, and his stomach's in knots, because he realizes now how close he came to fucking up the other day. How easy it would've been for Stasiak to flip on him right there to Penning.

The thought kills any smartass remark or argument dead on his lips. He bites back a sigh, too, but for a whole different reason – he knows he's beat; Stasiak doesn't need to – and tries to relax his jaw enough to get some words through his teeth.

"Did you just call me here to chew me out," he says, "or did you need something?"

The only thing he hates more than the smirk that curls on Stasiak's face is the fact that there's nothing he can do to wipe it off.

"The only thing I _need_ is for you to do your job." _Your job,_ he says. Like this came with the badge.

It has nothing to do with the badge.

"You're gonna have to be more specific than that," Brian tells him, and his voice is bone dry and dead even. This isn't about being smart anymore; this is about getting whatever shit needs doing done so that he can get back to trying to get Braga and claw his way out of this mess. And something tells him Stasiak's not gonna make that easy on him, but he'll figure it out. "What's the job tonight?"

Stasiak seems to decide it's time to cut the crap – _finally_, Brian thinks, and _thank God_ – because he reaches into the pocket of his blazer and pulls out a folded-up sheet of paper that Brian ends up having to catch out of the air when he flicks it at him.

There's a printout of a driver's license on the paper when Brian gets it unfolded. _Edward Odell_. Fifty-two years old, San Francisco address, and he looks a little bit like John Wayne when he played Rooster in the original _True Grit_. Minus the eye patch, which is a shame, because that'd be pretty cool. Even still,

"Guy looks like a hard ass."

"Well then I guess it's a good thing I'm not asking you to go after him," Stasiak says.

Brian's surprised, but he's a little too cautious to be relieved just yet. "You're not?" He sounds skeptical, even to himself.

"He's IA. Only an idiot would go after him directly."

Brian stop himself just shy of repeating himself. _And you're not?_ he wants to say, but he doesn't, because it's just not worth it. Best just to see what the hell Stasiak wants and get it done. Besides, he's got aspirin in his glove box, and the sooner he gets done with Stasiak here, the sooner he can climb back in his car and down a good two or three or ten.

That goal in mind, he folds the paper and shoves it in his jean pockets. "Alright, then," he says. "So what's the play?"

Stasiak reaches into his pocket again, and this time, he comes out with a small manila envelope that looks an awful lot like the one that tech had handed him when he was finishing the Skyline.

"We need ears on him," Stasiak says as Brian dumps out the envelope into his hand. There's a pair of small devices that aren't quite the same thing as what Brian got, but they're similar enough that Brian knows the score. "One in his car – a blue 1972 Firebird, tags 4TGD7188 – and one in his hotel room. Address and room number's on the sheet."

"Guess it's too much to ask that you got your hands on the key."

"I got to do everything for you, O'Conner?" Stasiak sneers. "Want me to hold your hand, too?"

Brian tries really hard not to shudder at the very thought, and he thinks he might taste a little bit of that tequila from earlier that night on the back of his tongue. He thinks his lip might curl; his stomach definitely does. "I'll figure it out."

"I want it done by tomorrow morning."

"Wow, giving me…" he pauses to check his watch, "three whole minutes." It's 11:57; looks like he's not gonna be making his curfew again. "You're all heart."

Stasiak narrows his eyes again. "Don't get smart, O'Conner. Get to work."

"Only 'cause you asked so nice." And pocketing the envelope, Brian heads back to his car.

"O'Conner," he hears Forsythe call, and he turns around. "My gun."

Brian pauses at the door just long enough to take the gun out of his belt, drop the magazine, empty the chamber, and toss it to Forsythe before getting back in his car and driving away.

Soon as he makes it out on the road – and out of eyeshot of Stasiak and his bro – Brian downs a few aspirin and gets ready to go bug a couple of old birds.


	9. Chapter 9

He's had a busy morning. Breaking into Odell's hotel room wasn't that hard – no one ever locks their balconies, and the old cock's was snoring so loud, he didn't hear Brian slip in through the sliding glass door and plant the bug inside a lamp – and Brian boosted a '73 Firebird when he was freaking twelve, so that was next to nothing. Still, between planting those bugs and planting some drugs over at Dwight's as part of his damage control/get-back-in-the-race plan, he's made a day of it, and it's barely light out.

Brian knows he should feel bad about what he pulled on Dwight. Some sort of abuse of power or some shit. But like his buddy said: it's not like it's gonna stick, and it's just an overnighter – no big deal.

Besides, it gets the job done. He gets the call that afternoon, and the next night, he's at a warehouse-turned-club, waiting to meet up with Braga. To kill some time, he's shooting pool, partly because it's fun, but mostly because it's fucking insane downstairs. Way too many people, and he can't believe he's saying this, but the music is _actually_ too loud.

He must be getting old.

He feels like it sometimes. Especially lately. Between the late night at the races, the early ass morning busting Dwight, he's running on fumes again.

That doesn't keep him from playing a mean game of pool, though. Ever since he was a kid, hustling in bars with his first fake ID, he's had a knack for it, and even though he hasn't had much of a chance to keep in practice, it's looking like he's still got it. He's taken a nice wad of cash of a couple of guys so far – and he's definitely not putting that in his report; what they don't know won't hurt – and he's getting ready to take this fedora-wearing mother fucker in a round of eight-ball for another couple hundred bucks.

He's got his next shot all lined up, ready to sink his last stripe with four solids still on the table, when he catches something out of the corner of his eye. A flash of white that stands out against the reds of the place, and takes his shot and turns just in time to see a Dom's back retreating into the crowd of people down the hall.

_That's my cue._

Leaning the stick against the wall, he follows Dom out down the hall. Fedora-guy doesn't complain, but then, Brian figures he's probably just glad he gets to hold onto his hundred bucks.

_Go buy yourself another hat,_ he thinks, and then walks straight up to the bar. He's got eyes on Dom – fuck, he always has eyes on Dom – and he makes a point of brushing right past him to steal the seat next to him.

"That's too bad about Dwight, having the FBI raid your house the same night you raid the team," he says, all casual like, like he's just talking about the weather. Which is nice, by the way. "That's _un_-fortunate."

He's not being an ass, he swears. Or, at least, it's not about being an ass. Even if he knows Dom hates being ignored, and even if it makes him feel a little better giving Dom a hard time after he screwed him over at the race, it's not about that.

This is about taking a read. It's about figuring out where he and Dom stand in this whole thing, now that they're both in it, because he honestly doesn't know. There's a good chance Dom'll screw things up for him again, going after Braga. He doesn't trust Brian to be a part of this, and he knows, shit does he know, that he's probably earned every ounce of trouble Dom gives him for everything he pulled on him.

But that's history. Shitty history, but it's history, and maybe it's just his inner optimist talking, but he's kind of hoping Dom'll understand that they're after more or less the same thing, and that if they blow this…there won't be another chance.

So, he's playing it safe. He never, ever plays it safe, but he's doing it now, because there's a shit ton on the line. He's moved into Dom's field, and he'll let him make whatever move he's gonna make, and whatever happens, he'll deal with it.

Just like he always does.

"I wish I could say I was surprised to see you here," Dom says after one long-ass moment, and Brian's not ready to relax just yet, but he feels a little bit of the tension start to ease up as Dom reaches for a Corona the barkeep's handing him. "What's to stop someone from telling 'em you're a cop?"

Brian's thought about that. "Probably the same thing that's keeping me from telling them why you're really here," he says, and he's feeling kind of brave and actually glances up at him.

He didn't realize how close he was standing 'till now.

There's not a whole lot of time to think about that, though, because the next second, something claps on his back. As he's turning around, he thinks he catches Dom's eyes, and he thinks he's giving him a look, but there's not much time to think about any of that, either. Which is probably for the better, anyway.

"What up, fellas!" It's Ramon Campos, Braga's right-hand man, and he's holding out a hand that Brian takes on reflex.

"Hey, how you doing?" he says, like he's greeting an old buddy instead of the go-to guy of one of the biggest, baddest drug-dealers on the continent. It's crossed his mind that he might be bumping shoulders with the asshole that killed Letty, too, but he tries not to let that one take. There's a time and a place, and this ain't it.

"Great," Campos says. "You having a good time?"

"Yeah, a great time." He's not actually lying, either. Between dominating at the pool table and not getting his block knocked off by Dom, this night's not going so bad.

Campos grins. "Come on, let's have a better time."

And as Campos starts to lead them away, Brian glances back at Dom and yeah, he's _definitely_ giving him a look. He's got an amused sort of smile on his face, and that makes Brian grin, too, because he's thinking that maybe this could work out after all.

"How's your car?" Campos asks as he takes a seat in a little corner setup. Brian'd be surprised it's open – every other seat in this place seems filled – but he knows Campos is important shit around here, so even if it was full, it's probably cleared out for him. "Took a nasty bump."

Brian keeps his smooth grin going. He knows it makes him look cocky, but he's figured out a long time ago that it's what people are expecting to see. People like confidence, and that comes easy to Brian.

"It'll be ready," he says. He's already done all the real repairs, and he's got a couple techs back at the bureau doing all the cosmetic shit.

He and Dom take seats on either side of Campos, and Brian's not gonna read too much into it. Hell, it's probably better that way, because Brian's starting to realize it's a lot harder to keep his cool around Dom, and he really needs to do that right now. Maybe some distance'll help.

He notices his inner optimist isn't piping up much this time.

"I also heard you just got out of county."

"Yeah?" Dom says, and Brian feels his pulse ratchet up a little more. He doesn't _think_ Dom's gonna out him – they pretty much agreed not to, in not-so-many words – but that doesn't keep that niggling tension from flaring up again. "You know a guy named Jim Garcia?"

Then again…fucking _Dom_. He knows he's yanking his chain; he can see it in Dom's eyes. He knows that smile, knows that flashing in his eyes. But this really ain't the time.

He shakes his head. "Nah. Big place. Lotsa names, lotsa faces." And he knows he's dodged the bullet when Campos turns his head to look at Dom, who's trying – and failing – to smother a smile in the lip of his Corona bottle.

"And you? You're wanted by a lot of people, homes."

And now it's Brian's turn to take a few shots. "Yeah," he says, "that kind of heat can't be good for business."

"Yeah, well that depends on how you look at things." And on the subject of looks, Dom's not looking at Campos; he's looking straight at Brian, and _shit_, his eyes are just as dark, just as penetrating as Brian remembers. "I go down; I do time. I do _real_ time."

Brian can't help it. That line makes him chuckle, because isn't it a bitch that that's the whole reason he wanted to keep Dom away from all this, and here he is using it as a selling point? It ain't funny, really, but Brian can appreciate the irony.

"I don't know about your other drivers, but when I see flashing lights in my mirror, I don't stop."

Christ, but he's smooth as ever. Hard as ever.

And on a list of things Brian's _not_ gonna think about….

Seriously, though, the guy's damn near unshakable, and he's got mad respect for that. Dom's always been the kind of guy you could lean on and not worry about ever giving on you, and _fuck_, what Brian wouldn't give for that right now. He's got the weight of the world bearing down on him; it'd be nice to be able to let someone else bear a little bit of the load for a little while.

Except they're not in that place right now. Brian would trust Dom with his life, and maybe that makes him an idiot, because he's pretty sure it isn't mutual right at the moment. He'd really like to change that in the near future, but right now, it ain't happening.

A buzzing in his pocket startles him out of his thoughts right about the same time Campos leans back and looks between them.

"Do you know each other?" he says.

Brian lowers his beer, and tries to ignore another buzz at his hip. He's a little flustered all of the sudden, between Dom and his phone, because he's got this weird sinking feeling in his gut that he knows exactly who it is texting him, and he gets the feeling his not-so-bad night is about to take a turn for the worse.

He tries to grin, because he notices Dom looking at him again, and he thinks it plays okay.

"He used to date my sister," Dom says. And yeah, that'll do the trick. Explains the passive-aggressive digs at each other, the tension that you'd have to be fucking blind not to notice.

Campos seems to buy it anyway, because he smiles. "I see." He leans forward and grabs the tequila bottle off the table, glancing over at Brian as he does. "You're a lucky man."

Brian doesn't feel that lucky. His phone's practically burning a hole in his hip, even though it's stopped buzzing, and he's having to work a little harder to stay focused on the conversation. He tells himself Stasiak can wait, mostly because he's still pissed at him for that shit he pulled with Mia, but it only does so much.

He forces his mind on track, though. "How's that?"

"You're still breathing."

Dom gets a kick out of that, letting out this low, breathy sort of chuckle, and damned if _that_ doesn't get Brian's attention back to present company. He feels himself smiling a little bit too at the shot Campos just handed him.

"To the ladies we've loved, and the ladies we've lost," Campos announces grandly, "salut."

"Salut," Brian echoes, and as hard as he tries not to notice the barely-there pain on Dom's face, it still hits him harder than the tequila he downs. Damn near, he said; not all the way. Losing Letty…he knows that's got to have been hell for Dom, because it seems to him like the only thing that can rattle Dominic Toretto is losing what he loves. His dad, Jesse, and now Letty.

Brian's quick to change the subject. "So what's Braga about?" Two birds, one stone.

"You know, he's just one of us," Campos says. Somehow, Brian finds that hard to believe. "Came up from the streets. Down for _el barrio_. Now, he's a shot caller. The boss of bosses. See all these cats in here? Any one of them would die for Braga."

"Including you?" Brian says.

"Especially me."

Brian feels like there's something more to that claim, something deep there that Campos isn't telling them, but before he can ask – he's not even sure he was gonna; you don't ask too many questions, or else you risk drawing attention to yourself – a guy appears out of nowhere and whispers something to Campos that Brian couldn't catch if he tried.

He and Dom exchange glances. They both know something's going down, but neither of them know what, and Brian thinks he can tell that bothers Dom just as much as it bothers him. Especially knowing that there's nothing they can do.

"Enjoy the party, fellas." Clearly, Campos isn't gonna be enjoying it with them anymore, because he stands. "Club's yours. Whatever you want: booze, broads – it's all good.

And then he's gone, and it's just Brian and Dom, and the first thing Brian can think of to say is, "Braga's mine." Because he doesn't give a shit who would die for him; the fact of the matter is, people killed for him. Killed people Brian cares about. And if he's gonna get revenge for Letty, and if he's gonna use Braga as leverage for a deal with the FBI, then he's got to do this.

A few girls come in and start sitting around, and Brian doesn't need a cue to leave, because his phone's still burning against his leg, so he starts to stand.

"I'm taking the whole house down," he tells Dom as the guy takes a shot glass from one of the 'broads,' and Brian tries to tell himself that he's angry at the situation and at Braga, and that he's just glaring at the girls because they're convenient.

Dom doesn't actually look up at him as he goes, but he hears him, and that's enough. "Good luck."

It sounds all well and good, but Brian knows it for what it is: a challenge. Whoever gets to him first, that's who gets him.

No time to waste, then.

As Brian stands to start following Campos to wherever the hell it is he's going, he fishes out his phone. Sure enough, there's one message waiting, and he clicks it open. It's a good cover, if nothing else, although it's kind of hard to dodge all the bodies in the club while he's staring at the screen.

_Same place. 1 hour._

Seriously, Brian wonders sometimes if Stasiak takes the time to type the damn texts, or if he's just got that shit on the clipboard. It's always the same place, and it's always one hour. 'Cause of course Stasiak doesn't do anything in advance.

He's got one hour, then. Less, actually. He's got less than one hour to find something on Braga that he can use before he's got to book it back to the bureau and face the music so to speak of a no-doubt _extremely_ pissed off Stasiak and whatever little errand he's got for Brian to run this time.

And to think – the day started off so well.


	10. Chapter 10

Brian's not really surprised that Stasiak's not there. It's nearly two in the morning; way past his bedtime. Guy needs his beauty sleep.

Apparently, Brian doesn't get the same courtesy. Although, honestly, he could think of worse things than _not_ seeing Stasiak so early in the morning. Screw a balanced breakfast – he doesn't think he's had a square meal in a month solid, and he's still doing fine, right? – _this_ is a good way to get the day started off right.

Minus the whole 'dirty cop errand boy' thing, he guesses.

Instead of Stasiak, one of his boys is there. Brian doesn't actually know his name or even really recognize his face; he's just assuming that it's one of Stasiak's, because the guy's got that same sour look on his face that they all do, and he's waiting by the hood of his car with a rolled-up sheet of paper.

"I don't think I've seen you before," Brian says as he gets out of his car. "You new or something?"

The guy scowls, which is an expression Brian thinks he should avoid with a face like his. It makes him look like a constipated rat. "Or something."

"So, what's the deal this time?" He knows he sounds conversational. Truth be told, he really doesn't give a shit. He'd actually like to get this done ASAP, so that there might be a chance in hell of him snagging more than a couple hours of shuteye before he has to go in for work.

That said, as pressing as his need for sleep is, his need to satisfy his curiosity – and to annoy the hell out of anyone Stasiak considers 'good company' – is even more pressing. See, he's curious because Stasiak's been calling him out every day it feels like, for the past week. It used to be maybe a monthly thing, or every other week, but lately, Stasiak's been calling him in more. He doesn't know if that's his way of tightening the leash, which he wouldn't put past him, or if it might be something else.

The whole 'wanting to annoy the hell out of them' thing is just payback for the bitch of a headache he's got thanks to Forsythe. And yeah, he knows this guy ain't Forsythe, but in his head, they're pretty much all the same person, so it'll do. Especially when the guy thwaps him in the chest with the rolled-up sheet of paper like some sort of bad puppy.

He takes it off his hands and, very admirably he thinks, resists the urge to smack him with the thing right back. "This is the third time this week, man," he says as he slides the rubber band off the paper. And if the rubber band _happens_ to go flying off his fingers and peg what's-his-face in the chest, he swears it wasn't on purpose.

It's kind of funny, though.

"Sorry, man." He's really, really not. "That was my bad."

What's-his-face is not amused. "Stasiak told me about you, O'Conner," he says, and holy shit, his voice is deep. Not as much as Dom's – he's not gonna think about why he's the first one Brian compares people to – and it's a different kind of deep. It's thinner, and it doesn't have that rumble to it that Brian can almost _feel_ echoing in his chest.

He's not gonna think about that, either.

"Nothing bad, I hope."

"He told me you're a punk," the guy says.

Brian chuckles and glances up from the papers he's started thumbing through. It's mostly just pictures of the impound lot. "That's all?" Honestly, that's awfully conservative for Stasiak. He figured there would at least be a few more curse words involved.

"He told me you're a little shit, too."

_There it is._

And what's-his-face isn't finished. "Don't know how to follow orders, don't know how to listen."

"What can I say? I have a problem with authority." He flips to the next page casually, because even though the guy's moving towards him, and even though he's about six-feet-six-inches of biker-looking muscle, Brian couldn't care less. He knows intimidating – he just spent an hour with it, with _him_ – and this ain't it.

It's when the guy grabs him by the front of his shirt that he gets a little antsy, and that's not because he's nervous, but because he's getting ready for a fight. Least this one has the balls not to come at him from behind.

"This is my operation, O'Conner," the guy tells him, and Brian almost winces when he feels a button pop off his shirt. He liked that shirt. Fucking beefcake. "You fuck this up, I'll give you a problem."

He guesses that'd explain why Stasiak's not here. This isn't his gig, which kind of pisses Brian off, because now he knows he's being ponied out to other parts of their little operation.

He feels the pressure on the front of his shirt increase, until the back of his collar bites into his neck, and he instinctively reaches up and grabs the guy's wrist. He doesn't pull, doesn't try to squirm. If he wanted to get loose, he could; he's just trying to keep this under control.

"You wanna let me go?" It's not really a question; it's not even really a suggestion. He just looks down at the guy's arm, then back up at him, and he hopes that the guy can figure out from that, that if he _doesn't_, this isn't gonna end well for him.

The guy's lip twitches under a Colonel Sanders mustache in what Brian's pretty sure is a snarl, but finally, he shoves him back. And he's thinking, if this shit's gonna go on, he's definitely gonna have a talk with Stasiak, because all his guys manhandling him ain't gonna fly.

Mostly because he can't afford to lose anymore shirts.

"Feel better?" Brian says. He tries to fix his shirt, before realizing half the buttons are gone, and giving up. "Now, what's this about?" The folder's just got a bunch of security cam frames from the impound lot and an address on a sticky-note on the top.

"We got a shipment needs moving."

Brian's been in the business – especially with these guys – long enough to know what _shipment_ means. Stasiak does most of his work with drug-dealers and runners, helping them move shit around, and he knows a little bit of it slips through the cracks.

Brian narrows his eyes. "I think you got me mistaken for one of your mules."

"And I think you got me mistaken for someone that gives a shit. I got IA breathing up my ass, and I got them checking out that impound lot tomorrow. I need it moved to that one," he flicks a sausage finger at the post-it, "before six, and I need it done under the radar. Capische?"

Actually, Brian's a little shell-shocked. Not about what this guy's telling him to do, because honestly, he'd much rather play pizza boy than enforcer, even if it is an assload of drugs. No, he's just snagging on the fact that this guy actually used _capische_ in a regular sentence, _not_ ironically.

And people laugh at him for saying 'copacetic.'

"Alright, yeah, I got you," he says, rolling up the papers and stuffing them in his back pocket. He's already got it in his head what he's doing; he's already had a little experience breaking into impound lots. Call it the product of a misspent youth. "I'll get it done."

"You better, or I'll have your ass."

Brian's eyebrow twitches. "You're not really my type, bro," he says, but what he really means is, _you're not D_—

He slams the door on that real quick. He's screwed enough without his head going places like that, places it doesn't need to go. The last thing he needs is some sort of internal crisis. Not over something that doesn't even matter.

Because it can't. Matter, he means. He's doing all this to keep them safe, to clear Dom's name, to bring him home, because he owes that to Letty, and he owes it to them. To _Him_. What he wants has nothing to do with it, and neither does _who_ he wants because…shit, it's not his home he's trying to bring Dom back to. It's the Torettos' home: Mia's and Dom's. He's not a part of it anymore, and if he can make this happen – and he's going to try until his dying breath to do it – then he knows he's gonna have to find a way to be okay with that.

It's just really fucking hard. It's been bad enough staying away from Mia. He still…he has feelings for her. And even if he doesn't know what they are anymore, because shit, five years is a long time and they've both done a lot of growing since then, he still wants to be part of her life.

It's even worse now that Dom's back stateside, now that Brian's found his way back into his orbit, it's just…_gravity_. He's doing all he can to stay outside it and do what he needs to do, but it feels like the longer he spends, the harder it pulls him in

And yet here he is, doing shit like _this_: beating up dealers, threatening their _families_, their kids, playing drug mule for a bunch of dirty cops, and he feels like he's moving away. He feels like Dom's Charger, feels like he's spinning his wheels, like he's taking off, like his chasse's folding in on itself, and frankly, he's fucking amazed he hasn't fallen apart yet.

He can't, though. He can't, now, and he won't later, because that's just not how he rolls. He's just got to get through this: this job, this week, this bust, this _clusterfuck_. He's just got to get through it.

One quarter mile at a time.


	11. Chapter 11

He manages to grab maybe a few hours of sleep back at his apartment before he's got to get to work. He's got that run for Braga today, and he's just got this feeling in his gut that something's gonna go to hell. Maybe everything.

Probably everything.

On the plus side, he gets to leave the monkey suit on the hanger. He goes with a t-shirt and jeans instead – shit a drug-running street racer would wear. Not that he'd know anything about that.

He gets in a little late, which isn't really a problem. Thing about working undercover is he gets a lot of flexible hours. Showing up closer to lunchtime than starting time doesn't even earn him any funny looks as he heads into the monitoring room.

He spots Trinh out of the handful of people manning the computers without much trouble and walks over to her with his bag of party favors.

"I got a gift for you," he says.

Trinh doesn't even blink. "Alright." She even smiles as he comes and props his hip on the table, taking the bag off his hands like it's what she's paid to do. Maybe it is. Honestly, he's not really clear on what her job description is, just that she's really damn helpful and might be one of the only people in the precinct that _isn't_ part of the betting pool to see how long before he commits a felony. "A dirty shot glass. Just what I always wanted."

_Well, damn_. He guesses that makes his Christmas shopping easy this year.

"I got these from the club last night," he tells her. "There's two sets of prints here. Run them both. I know one of these is Compos'. I think the other might be Braga's. And you're gonna have to go beyond Interpol." He kind of slips that last bit in under the wire. And for good reason.

"So, that means I have to contact individual agencies, and that could take weeks. Okay." She nods, too, like that's perfectly okay that he's just asked her to do something that should take about a month in, oh, say, forty-eight hours. She may be the new kid, but if she doesn't get a raise or something soon, then there really is no justice in the world.

Of course, that wouldn't be news to him.

He's thinking about offering to buy her lunch or something – seems fair payment for services rendered – but then something starts buzzing in his pocket that's _definitely_ not his phone.

He stands up and pulls it out. It's the GPS, and according to the screen, it's downloading coordinates.

Looks like it's go-time.

He's barely made it five blocks from headquarters before his phone starts ringing. He answers it, and it's Penning on the other line. Three traffic violations in less than three blocks.

He's actually counted four, but he's not one to nitpick.

He smiles when Penning tells him to slow down. The man still doesn't know him. "Sure thing, Dad," he says, and he's no sooner hung up the phone than he's taking the fuck off.

The GPS has him getting there in twenty-eight minutes. He makes it in nineteen. But that's about where the fun stops.

The other drivers are already there when he pulls in, and some of Braga's men are giving them the once over. Which is cool – he expected that.

He didn't expect the signal detectors. They're running the wands over another of the cars when Brian pulls in, and he realizes with a sharp twist of his gut that if they make it to his car and he's still got this tracker in his console, he's fucked.

So, he won't. Have the tracker, he means. He installed it to where it'd be easy enough to get to in a bind – it's not his first run-in with agency trackers in a car, and he was hoping to avoid what happened with those cars back in Miami – but he didn't quite count on it being such a bitch to find. The guys are getting closer. He's got a big fella with eyes on him, walking his way, and it's easy enough to keep his face cool, but that's not gonna do shit for him when they come over with one of those wands.

Luckily, he's always been good at thinking on his feet. And since he didn't get nearly enough sleep this morning, and because he's weirdly addicted to the stuff, he's got a can of NOS in his cup holder. It's quick, and it's a waste of a good quarter-can of energy drink, but he manages to drown the tracker right before the guys get over to him.

So far, so good.

When he gets the all clear, he feels his gut unclench a little. Just a little, though. He's not really good at the whole 'uptight, neurotic' thing. He learned early on it's a good move to keep your cool, no matter what shit's coming your way. But that doesn't mean he doesn't believe in a healthy level of alertness. And right now, that level's pretty damn high.

It doesn't help when they load all their cars up into the back of some eighteen-wheeler. Brian's always been a little bit claustrophobic, ever since that time he was little and thought hiding out in his dad's big tool box would be a good idea when the old bastard got drunk. He forgot the damn thing locked from the outside. Took 'em nearly eight hours to find him, and only then 'cause his dad needed a wrench.

Saved by the shitty plumbing. Pun intended.

So yeah, it's all well and good that he avoided getting plugged for bringing a tracker to a drug party. Unfortunately, he also knows that means Penning's gonna be wondering where the hell he got off too. And Stasiak.

He pulls out his phone to check, but he's really not that surprised to see "No Service" across the top of the black screen. Of course not. Means he's got no way of getting in touch with his people, letting them know that he has not, in fact, gone AWOL or MIA or any other acronym that could get him brought up on charges.

Stasiak's probably having kittens, he thinks, which actually helps lighten his mood a little bit. Mia's supposed to be laying low, so he doesn't think that should be a problem. And anyway, he thinks he was pretty clear during their last meeting about Stasiak steering clear of Mia. That's non-negotiable, and he will rain hell down on that son of a bitch if he so much as touches her again, no matter what kind of dirt he's got on him.

On a lighter note, he's pretty sure the office pool's getting bigger by the second. Someone might be getting an early bonus.

He guesses there's he can do about it, anyway. Honestly, he's not thinking a nap would be such a bad idea, if those panicky son of a bitches outside would give it a rest. They're climbing all over the place like it's some sort of playground, whining about being locked in a truck, and if Brian actually wanted to talk to them, he might ask them just what the hell they were expecting? A first class flight across the border? A freaking limousine? Nah, he's not happy about the truck, but it's pretty much on par with what he was expecting.

Sighing, he leans his seat back and lets his eyes slip closed. By his best guess, they've got an hour or two before they're across the border. That's a whole extra night's sleep for him. And it's sure as hell better than staring at all the walls boxing them in.

Yeah, that claustrophobia thing? Maybe not so little after all.

He's actually relieved when they make it to Mexico. Try as he might, he couldn't actually get to sleep – too many strange people, strange noises, and probably a little too much energy drink – so he was glad when the truck opened up and they all got out.

They've been waiting around for a few minutes, all sitting around on the hoods of their cars. The other two guys're trying to look tough, Brian's trying to look awake, and Dom…Dom doesn't have to try. He just is. Brian both admires and envies that about him.

He catches himself glancing over at him, at Dom, standing there with his arms and ankles crossed. They just got here, and he already looks like he owns the place.

He also looks like he's looking right back at him.

_Shit_.

But then Dom's lip twitches upward just a little, and Brian can't tell if it's a smirk or a smile, but at least it's not a scowl, so he's kind of cool with it.

The sound of approaching footsteps make him turn away, though, and look ahead to where Gisele's coming in with her posse.

"Welcome to Mexico, boys."


	12. Chapter 12

Mexico's a fucking nightmare.

He's not expecting the explosion when it happens, so he goes flying. But then, so do the bastards pointing guns at them, so Brian's not really gonna complain about a couple of bumps and bruises. He's got a gun in his hands as fast as he can, and he's putting all that time on the ranges to good use. _Short, controlled bursts_, his firearm instructor's voice echoes in his head. Only he's played enough video games – and been in enough shootouts – to know that already.

Soon as he's clear, he jumps in the nearest car, which just happens to be the bad guys' Hummer, and he's totally cool with that. It's gonna be a bitch getting it back through the mountain, but he doesn't exactly have time to shop around.

Dom's got some son of a bitch pinned up against a car, beating the shit out of him when Brian rolls up, and the first time he yells at him to get in, he just turns and looks at him and goes right back to beating the guy up. It takes a little more yelling and the sound of an alarm to get his ass moving, and Brian's off as soon as he sees Dom's ass hit the seat.

He doesn't stop until he's well clear of the border, and then he pulls off to an underpass that he thinks is hidden enough to work okay. He's got to call the office first. He's got to tell them what's going down, and he's got to do it quick, while they've got Braga by the balls.

Only problem is, some little prick at HQ puts him on hold for at least five minutes. He's just about to give up and try calling again when, finally, he hears a beep and Penning's voice on the line asking him where the hell he's been.

"I got the shipment."

"'I got the shipment,' or 'we got the shipment'?" Penning answers.

Brian feels his gut twist. "What are you talking about?" It comes out sounding a hell of a lot cooler than he feels, but he guesses that's kind of what he's there for: his cool, and his mad skills in keeping it.

"Traffic cams in the area picked up pictures of you and Toretto together," Penning says, and Brian bites back the swears that rise to the tip of his tongue, because shit. Shit. Shit. _Shit_. "Listen to me, O'Conner. Bring in the shipment and bring in Toretto."

There's no way in hell that's happening, Brian thinks. He'll cut town and go back to fucking Mexico before he turns Dom over, so Penning can take that idea and shove it right up his ass. Or Stasiak's.

What he says, though, is, "But I thought the point was to get Braga. We got an opportunity here." Because he still thinks he can swing this. He still thinks he can make this work. He's worked too damn hard for things to go to shit now. If he can just get Penning to see his side of things—

"Brian, the clock stopped ticking." And there it is. It's final. At least, as far as Penning's concerned. "Bring them in. We clear?"

But before Brian can answer, something catches his eyes. In the light from the highway over head, he sees something glinting on the ground. Drops. A trail of them, and there's this sick, awful feeling in his gut, because he knows what it is. He's been a cop too long not to.

Penning's voice is still coming through the phone, but he's already dropped it from his ear, and as he follows the trail of blood on the asphalt, he ends the call. He'll deal with that later. There's something more important.

The trail leads back around the Hummer, and Brian follows it all the way to…

Dom.

Shit.

Dom's standing behind the back of the Hummer, a couple of the hard plastic cases from the back in front of them, and he's opening one of them up when Brian gets around. Inside, Brian sees silver-wrapped bricks all packaged neatly, and he knows what they are without checking.

He doesn't care.

"So this is what sixty million looks like," Dom's saying, but Brian's more worried about what his shoulder looks like.

He's been shot. It doesn't look bad, just into the top of his shoulder, and shit, Dom's probably got so much muscle, he bets it didn't even get in that deep. But he's bleeding, and a gunshot wound's a gunshot wound. "Yeah, we got to get you to a doctor."

"We got to find a place to hide this."

Brian doesn't want to admit it – he wants to shove Dom in the back and drive him to the nearest hospital, to hell with the drugs and Braga and the manhunt, because what the hell's it all for but Dom anyway? – but Dom's right. They need to hide the drugs, or else they lose their leverage, and the whole thing really does go to shit.

But then it hits him.

"I got a spot." And he does. See, he happens to know of a certain impound lot that's getting inspected tonight.

And he also happens to know of one that isn't. The impound lot he moved Stasiak's man's shipment to should be clear, at least for another forty-eight hours. That should be plenty of time for him to figure all this out.

"You sure about this?" Dom asks as they get out of the Hummer. He doesn't sound real convinced.

Brian is sure about it. But he's sure as hell not going to tell Dom _how _he's sure about it. He's not about to tell him that he was playing musical drug stash for a dirty Fed. It's bad enough he knows about it himself. And anyway, he just got Dom to stop hating him, or at least to do a better job of hiding it; the last thing he wants to do is screw that up.

He tells himself it doesn't matter that he's doing it because of them, because of Dom and his sister. Because he isn't. He's doing it for himself, because _he_ can't stand to see them get hurt. It's his choice. He doesn't deserve any special considerations. He just needs to get this shit over with. He's got to get out.

Which means that, for now, he's got to keep moving.

"Yeah," he says. "The last place they'll check? They're own impound yard." _At least this one_. "Trust me." And he even manages a smirk, because hell, why not enjoy the fact that this shitty little deal he's got with Stasiak's actually working in his favor for once? It's the little things, right?

Dom doesn't say anything, but the fact that he starts walking away is all Brian needs. Maybe he doesn't trust him, but he trusts _that_, and that'll have to do for now. He falls into step beside him and tries to start another conversation before Dom gets to wondering just how he's so sure. Because Dom's good at calling bullshit, and this isn't the time.

"You know, I've been thinking: when you blew up your car back there, you blew up mine, too." Well, the Feds', but that's beside the point. He put in the wrench time.

Dom cuts his eyes over at him, and there's a hint of a smirk on his lips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Brian feels his own lips pull upwards. "So now you owe me a ten-second car." And when Dom glances over at him, he can't keep the full-on grin off his face.

"Is that right?"

"Yeah."

Instead of firing some smartass remark right back, though, Dom just starts walking a little faster. If Brian didn't know any better, he'd say he's looking for something. Brian doesn't figure out what until he cuts in by a Subaru Impreza, and it doesn't _really _sink in, until Dom smashes the damn window out with his elbow.

He watches, smile growing, as Dom very deliberately reaches in past all the shattered glass and pulls the door open from the inside. He even holds it for him, the cheeky bastard.

Brian just laughs it off, though, and tries not to get any glass shards in his ass as he slides into the driver's seat.

They don't end up going to the hospital. Honestly, Brian knew they couldn't from the get go; he was just kind of freaked out. Which is weird, when he thinks about it, because he's shot people. He's killed people. It's just different when it's Dom.

A lot of things are like that.

He ends up calling Mia, though, which kind of goes against the whole point of the thing, trying to keep her out of it, but he doesn't know where else to go. He sure as hell doesn't know how to treat a bullet-wound. All he managed to do was pour a little alcohol on it and bandage it with some gauze until the cavalry could arrive, and even that had been a little outside of his comfort zone. Not that he let Dom know that.

Watching Mia play nurse is both one of the scariest and most awe-inspiring things he thinks he's ever seen. He's always known she was smart, and he's really freaking proud of her for going through with the whole medical school thing. She can make something of herself like this. She can _be something_, help people and herself and be happy, and he's so glad she's got that chance, because she deserves it.

He's happy as hell when she finishes, though. Dom's like a damn statue while she's patching him up, even has a smile on her face, but Brian knows that doesn't exactly feel like getting a handjob from an angel, and he wouldn't wish it on anyone. Well, not most people.

Definitely not Dom.

They order Chinese in for dinner, and there's this weird sort of familiarity to it. It's not one of the famous Toretto family barbeques, but sitting around the table with Mia and Dom, with his _family_, Brian can almost pretend that everything's okay. That he's not in over his head. That he's not drowning.

"You want some of this?" Mia says, and her voice brings Brian back out of his head to the table. He's not sure how, but it looks like his plate's gotten more full since he spaced out.

No doubt Mia's doing. She's one of those food-lovers, not that she loves food, but that she uses food to express her love. He thinks that's a Toretto family thing. He's got no complaints. They're food-lovers, and he loves food. It's the perfect relationship.

Heh. He wishes.

Mia's hand flashing in front of his face once again snaps him out of it – and wow, he needs sleep or something, because this shit's getting ridiculous – and he watches her pass over a container to Dom.

"It's spicy," she warns.

He can't help himself. "I like it _hot_," he says, and it's definitely not intentional or meaningful that he glances over to Dom when he says it. He just thinks he'll get a kick out of it.

Dom glances up at him and makes a sound low in his throat that could either be a chuckle or an agreement around a mouthful of lo mein.

"Dom, what are you doing?" Mia says, not sharply, but a little but…well, sharply. "You reached first. You have to say grace."

Then for some unfathomable reason, Dom looks across the table at _Brian_, like he's gonna have something to say on the matter. Honestly, he's never been really religious anyway; he just did it because it was important to the Torettos, and he never wanted to offend.

But it _is_ important to the Torettos. It's important to Mia, and he knows it's important to Dom, even if he's maybe got a lot going on in his head right now. So he just kind of tips his head and makes a point of folding his hands in front of his face. He knows Dom knows what he's doing, because he smiles, and Brian smiles too because of it, because he feels like he just did the right thing. For once. And it feels really, really good.

"Thank you, Lord, for blessing this table," Dom says, his voice low and familiar and somehow weirdly soothing. Dom's whole presence is like that, he thinks. Weirdly soothing. Grounding. It helps calm some of the chaos in Brian's head, and God knows he needs that.

And then there's Mia. Her voice is a different kind of calm. It's gentle, soft, musical. "With food, family, and friendship."

It's been a long time since Brian's had all three of those together. Hell, it's been a long time since Brian's had two of those things just by themselves. Family…friendship….

Sometimes, in the middle of all this craziness, when he's getting kicked down and walked over and used and abused, and it just feels like it's never going to stop, it's easy to forget why he's doing all this. It's easy to forget why he's trying so _fucking hard_.

He remembers, now.


End file.
